


Coyote

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Ensemble Cast, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pink Hanzo, SmutWithPlot means there will be smut in your plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-03-23 00:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: They say you should never meet your heroes, they will always disappoint you. And yet, if you ask them about lovers, a fantasy, they will always encourage you to chase it, 'nothing ventured is nothing gained' and so on. A short-lived romance is 'better loved and lost than never loved at all'.People are fools when it comes to love.//Western AU for #McHanzo, the other side of the coin to "Jack Rabbit", because that's a thing.





	1. Prologue: Prettier Than A Picture

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to Valpur for "Who Taught You How To Hate" and Bad_Faery for "Tune of Bullets" for their amazing Western AUs. "Tune of Bullets" was the first Western AU I had seen done properly, and it was #Rumbelle rather than #McHanzo, but damn it, it's somethin' special. I learned the hard way to archive your favorites.

_Prettier 'n a picture._

When you find yourself in the desolate wasteland of a foreign country, surrounded by the enemy, it is paramount that you not lose your grip on sanity. Never let them see your spirit crumble. I was blessed with a wonderful poker face, and an iron will. A good trick is to think about something else. Ponder a proverb, chew on the cud of whatever information you already have, puzzle out a way out of your present predicament. I was not taught to pray for salvation, to beg the ancestors for reprieve.

The ancestors before me were ruthless. They would expect me to get out of my own problems.

But today, I pondered a queer phrase one of their youth had uttered -- youth! As if he wasn't my age. As if his eyes weren't as cold and dark as my own, the gun at his side a weapon he was trained to use, the swagger and confidence in his stride as much earned confidence as peacock strutting. He'd whispered it under his breath, an exclamation of delighted surprise, and when I had looked up at him, it was all I could do to disguise my alarm in realizing he meant _me_.

_Prettier 'n a picture._

What did it mean? Prettier _in_ a picture? I was something that ought to be framed and admired? Such a poetic turn of phrase for an American outlaw. But then, 'prettier' implied one thing was 'more pretty than' another. So maybe it was 'prettier than a picture'. It made even less sense, literally, and yet it was the kind of exaggerated nicety that was suited to this absurd country. As pretty as a picture was, framed and admired on the wall, this was even better.

Either way, it was certainly meant as a compliment. I let myself blush, knowing none of them could know what I was thinking and would blame it on the heat.

 _Prettier than a picture_. I had been called a lot of things over the years. Disgrace. Honor. Pride and shame. Strong, weak. Destined for greatness. Even sentimental and arrogant, pushy, bossy, cold and ruthless. Handsome, on occasion. But no one had ever called me 'pretty' before.

And certainly not 'prettier than a picture'. I didn't know what to do with the warmth in my gut from such absent-minded praise. And yet, from day one, any time that particular outlaw stepped into my gaze, I couldn't help but admire him. He wasn't unhandsome either. Strong jaw, hair like chocolate, painted with gold in the sun, black hat tucked over clever eyes and a big mouth that stretched into a sardonic grin. He had a biting sense of humor, teasing with a quick wit but simple words. And yet when his eyes met mine, there was an innocent curiosity there.

I glared at him, and he avoided me. I wondered if the ancestors could torment me a little less and bless me a little more.

In their usual backhanded way, they obliged me. While most of the gang left to collect whatever ransom they had posted for my return, this one was left to guard me. There were two others, but they didn't find me interesting enough to bother with, choosing to drink in the shade of the porch. But he came to me, sniffing around me, curious. He had a smoke, hand-rolled, alternating from his lips to his fingers as he circled me. I felt exposed, on display... My dragons writhed uncomfortably under my skin, my half-open kimono disgraced by prying hands as they sought the tattoo to verify my identity. For once, it felt less like a badge of honor and more like a brand of shame.

"You, ah... You speak English?"

He asked me this as he came back around, over my right shoulder. I turned my head towards him, showing I was paying attention. His voice was... smooth. Young. But had the edge of smoke and drink to it. _At such a young age,_ I reflected. My own father reprimanded me for drinking too much, warning against such things. I wondered where his father was, that he hadn't been told the same. He came into vision, and from where I sat on my knees, he looked remarkably grand and tall. Lanky, half-starved and wild. But his eyes were nothing but curious. They were brown, I realized. Like dirt, or mud. They seemed impossibly warm in his red skin, contrasted with the dusted black of his crew. Cow leather gloves wrapped around his fingers, that white roll of tobacco held daintily between them. His other hand hugged his belt, thumb hooked against the curve of his hip, and I realized he wore a gun on each side. My eyes watched him take that cigarette to his lips, watched them purse, the red burning at the end as he inhaled, and then blew out a small stream of smoke.

How many times had I watched a geisha smoke a pipe and never found it as entrancing as this?

He moved with heavy steps, as if there was more weight to him than I could see, or maybe his feet were just so big as to complicate matters. His hands, too, were broad and long, dusting of hair on his arms. His spurs sang, pistols adding a verse, the steady sway of his hips moving to an unheard melody. He stopped in front of me, trying to figure me out. A coyote sniffing at something under the rocks, not sure if it was rabbit or snake.

"[Good morning,]" he added, a toothy grin. In Mandarin.

I fought a snort, though my lips twitched. I was pretty sure we were late in the afternoon already. The phrase was hardly appropriate.

"[Hello,]" he tried instead, this time in Cantonese. "[How are you?]"

Also, his accent was atrocious.

" _Habla espanol?_ " he asked.

I think that was Spanish. I tried for a patronizing smile, just a hint of it to my lips. The fact that he was trying to communicate with me was... strange. And endearing.

"I could try French, but I ain't very good," he added with a drawl, a smile dancing on his lips. And god, I saw a tease of tongue as he took the cigarette to his mouth again, and felt something in me flip, not unpleasantly, and a twitch in a place that I had thought would stay silent forever.

I imagine he was here to amuse himself. If I spoke, it was bonus. He'd be content to throw suggestions and phrases at me to see what stuck for his own edification. I toyed with the idea of giving him nothing, to see if he came back with more outlandish attempts...

...But it was hard to think with him standing over me like that. Alone, the two of us, my mind went to strange places. Wondering what other things I was prettier than in his eyes. What he saw when he looked at me. Wanted to know why it affected me the way it did... And what else he could do to me.

I wanted to see him take off those gloves, to see if there was hair on his knuckles. His shirt, too. The thought was wicked and wrong, and I looked away from him, hoping I could fool him into thinking it was shame to be tied up like this and not the sinful thoughts in my head.

"Prettier than a damn picture," he murmured again, a low and hungry growl. I looked up to him in surprise, and this time, when he touched that cigarette to his lips, his tongue teasing at the edges of his mouth, I felt for sure he was doing it with thoughts as black as mine. I could see the want in his eyes, and it thrilled me, terrified me, fascinated me. A reedy inhale, and then a low exhale. A sigh. I watched his chest move with it, and he dropped the butt of it to the ground. I watched his hand mirror the other, grasping his belt -- I could see the way his shirt hugged his hips, loose and then taught, fabric tucked into his trousers -- and his toe twisted over the butt, putting it out.

I wondered if he could dance, the way his feet moved. Black was dusted with gold, spurs gleaming and silver, polished and well-loved. I imagined red hands tenderly polishing those boots, murmuring all kinds of strange, sweet nothings to them, and I swallowed hard.

"McCree!" a voice called. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothin'," he answered, his head whipping back. Even that word came out like a song. "Why? What happened?" His boots shifted, and he turned away from me.

"You bein' awful quiet. Makes me suspicious."

I watched broad shoulders shake as he laughed, a hearty, belly-full thing. "Why you always assume I'm up to somethin'?" He spoke with teasing kindness, as my eyes regarded the easy way his arms lingered at his sides, shirt tucked in, a dampness at the small of his back, shirt clinging to his skin in a way that made me want to reach out and touch and... and _taste,_  of all things. I licked my lips, admiring his ass in the pants, wrapped around his thighs, strong calfs disappearing into those boots.

"Cos you _are_ up to somethin'. Always." I wondered what those spurs felt like. A childish notion to reach out and spin them with a finger possessed me, and if I hadn't been tied to a post like a common whore, I think I might have.

"Now that's just unkind," he protested, and he moved back towards them. I admired his cadence, the sway of his hips, trying to listen to that wordless song, and I sighed...

Unclean thoughts. I would be whipped for such things back home. I hung my head in shame. I listened to the outlaws' chatter in the next room, and I was left alone with them.

_"What's yer name?"_

_"H-Hanzo," I answered. I swallowed. "Hanzo Shimada."_

_"Hanzo Shimada..." It sounded like a siren song on his lips. "Well, that's awful perdy."_

_"You think I'm pretty?"_

_"Prettier than a picture," he growled. And maybe he would card his fingers through my hair and tilt my chin up. "Pretty little mouth, too."_

_"How dare you," I would answer, trying to be defiant. Failing miserably._

_"You talk a lot of shit," he would chide, his other hand working at his belt. "Maybe I ought to shut you up..."_

I looked up in alarm at the sound of boots on the floor again, and he was _back_. My heart raced, that perpetual fear that someone, somewhere, could read my wicked thoughts and would call me out on them. But as he knelt before me, all groaning leather and laughing eyes, he had in his hand not a cigarette, but a canteen of water.

"Thirsty?"

I swallowed, and my throat was indeed dry. I nodded, looking down in submission. _I hate this._

He twisted the top and offered it to me. I moved towards it, mouth parting...

_"Yeah, this oughta shut you up nice..."_

As if. He was gentle, meeting my lips, and tilting just enough. I was grateful he cannot know what I am thinking. He was being nothing but kind and considerate, and I was making him out to be a debaucherous bastard. Not my fault he dressed like one, but I got the impression he was only a child... Caught up in the wrong crowd.

And yet, grown enough to be a man.

I closed my mouth, a signal he heeded, and he capped it. I looked to his eyes, and there it was. _Sniff sniff. What are you?_

" _Xie xie?"_  he offered. 'Thank you' in Chinese.

I worked my jaw. He couldn't know. He was trying to be kind. I opened my mouth to speak, and looked up into his eyes.

They were so... innocent. It broke me.

"I am Japanese," I whispered.

He about fell over, and let out a breathy chuckle as he did so on purpose, dropping to his ass. A small cloud of dust settled around him, like fairy dust. "Well, I'll be," he mused, every word a melody. Could he not speak without music? It was like spiced wine, warm and edgy and wonderful. "You _do_ speak English."

I twisted my lips in a barest smirk, but his grin widened when he saw it.

"McCree, bring that back when yer done."

"Yah, sure!" he hollered back, glancing over his shoulder. His neck was long and graceful, his mane of brown messy and wild, the bob of his Adam's apple a giant bulb in his throat. I watched it dance as he spoke, and he turned back to me. From this close, I could see his evening shadow coming in, the lashes on his cheeks. The pinkness of his lips.

I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. _Prettier than a picture._

I watched him stroke his chin, the scraping of scuff on leather. "Japanese, huh?" he said. "I ain't never been out of America. Where is that?"

My heart squeezed. _I ain't never been_. He was so lowborn he couldn't even speak his own language properly. How could he know international geography? "It is not far from China. But it is not the same." I wanted to steal him away with me. Teach him to read -- god, he probably couldn't even read -- and teach him Japanese and Chinese and Korean and French and Italian and--

"So yer out West from us, yeah?"

I nodded. "Depending on how far South you are... You will hit Japan before you hit China."

"Yeah, but China's hella big, right?"

I nodded. "Yes." _Hella big_. What an odd phrase.

He nodded, and I could hear the whine of his skin as he bit his lip. I let out a thin sigh through my nose. I wanted to touch...

But he just grunted, as if deciding something. _Rabbit or snake?_ And he propped himself on one hand as he hopped to his feet with the formless grace of youth, and marched back to the others. I took a deep, steadying breath, and it shook as I exhaled.

_"It's hella big, innit?" he teased._

_"Hai," I gasped._

I could add his biting lip to the charade... Oh, he would torment me for weeks after all this was said and done. I squeezed my eyes shut.

It would be punctuated by his untimely demise.

I listened to their chatter, and his boots came towards me again.

"Ah, leave 'im alone," one of them said. "Damn chink can't speak any English anyway."

"Yeah, but he's _perty_ ," I heard him say, and my heart raced.

"Hear that, Earl? Ain't just the _chicanas_. He just likes _perty_."

"Perty and foreign, is what it is," Earl answered.

"Leave a man to his simple pleasures," he answered back, and I could hear him grinning.

"McCree's gonna get us all killed."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know."

They all laughed. When McCree -- was that his name? -- came back, there was still a low chuckle in his throat. _Pretty and foreign, is what it is_ , the man had said. And _chicanas_. He liked women, too...

I regarded him, baffled by this. I had known men that wanted men and pretended to want women, and I'd known men that were married and teased men, but I'd never actually met someone who fancied both. He sat down in front of me, this time he had a flask in his hand.

"Ya like to drink?" he offered, an edge of suggestion to it.

I told myself I wasn't imagining it. "Hai." I blinked. "I mean, yes. That means 'yes' in Japanese."

He nodded, a humming sound. " _Hai_. Kinda like sayin' 'hello'," he said, waving a hand. "We say 'hi'. I can see how that'd be confusin'."

I shrugged. "It could be." He popped the top and offered it to me. As before, he was gentle. My thoughts were not. I closed my eyes so I did not watch him as I did this -- the drink was watered down and awful, but the burn felt good to my throat. I pulled away, and so did he. I cleared my throat, and opened my eyes again.

He was watching me. And his eyes were dark as he took a swig as well.

I waited for him to finish before I spoke. "You think I'm pretty, hmm?"

I think he blushed -- it was hard to say, he was so red already. "Eheh... You heard that, huh?"

"You've said it a few times," I answered. There is a smugness in my voice, a smirk on my lips. "'Pretty and foreign, is what it is'," I echoed.

His eyes widened. "Shit, you can hear that?"

I chuckled. "Your men are not quiet." My eyes gesture towards them. "They do not know I understand, so they do not bother to be discreet."

His eyes regarded me, elbow propped up on a knee while his fingers idled with the flask cap. "You're a pretty clever fella."

"I'm also a very good shot," I purred, pointedly looking at his gun. His eyes followed, and then glanced back up. "And, I'm wearing three knives."

He paled. He believed me. "Shit."

I rolled my eyes, shrugging. "This is not the first time this has happened to me." I looked down at my lap. "Won't be the last, either."

I heard him swallow. "Well, hell. I'm awful sorry."

I looked up at him. I believed him. "I could be out of here if I wanted."

He gave me a lopsided smile. "I don't doubt you."

"And yet..." My eyes trail over his shoulder. "I imagine right now, my people are taking the bait, following your men back here... Once they know for sure I am here and alive, they will kill all of you."

His fingers fidget, and his eyes look down, his lips twitching. _Snake, for sure_. He untwists the cap and takes a swig... And then another long pull. He gives a small cough and takes a deep breath. "Hell," he sighs, and when he bites his lip, it's worry now, his eyes darting.

"For your kindness... I could spare you," I offered.

His eyes look up at me, begging. "Yeah?"

_"Please, Matsura," he begs me, those eyes full of want and fear. I touch his head in benediction, his cheek on my thigh._

_"Only because you asked nicely," I purr, and he groans over me._

I bite my lip, and I nod. "I could."

He seems to tighten, and he shifts, looking over his shoulder a moment, then back at me. "What do you need me to do?"

I rolled my eyes. "Untying me would be the first."

He let out a grunt of a laugh. "Yeah, sure." His head tilted to one side. _How stupid do I look?_ "And what else?"

He is clever, if not learned. "We continue talking. If they come in first, we pretend nothing has happened. If mine come in first, I hold you at knifepoint, to let them know I have the situation well in hand. I will drop you, and they will think you dead, and you will be left alive."

His lips twitch in something like disgust, and he takes another swig. "That involves you holdin' me at knifepoint."

"I could steal your gun and do it at gunpoint if you prefer," I offered. His eyes roll, and he leans forward, the back of his wrist to his lips.

"I think that's worse," he said, voice hoarse and weak.

"You also lose a shot, and I would be obliged to take it with me. I know a piece is hard to get around these parts, yet it is not something we would need. I was offering you to keep your own weapon."

His eyes look up at me, hurt and worried sick. But he seems to realize this is a twisted kind of gift. And he nods, looking away.

"I suppose that sounds fair." He looks over his shoulder at them. I look, too.

He turns back to me. "If my folks show up first. How do you tell your people not to hurt me?"

"Because if your people arrive first, they will untie me and present me. In which case, you would do well to hide and pretend you do not exist."

He let out a laugh. "Hide. Like a coward." Another swig and he bit back a groan. "That don't sound so great, either."

"Which is more important to you?" I purred. "Your dignity or your life?"

He guffawed. "That's rich," he growled, a biting smirk on his lips. "Comin' from a guy who's tied up to a pole like a hog."

"I have had better bindings," I answered him. "My country's shibari techniques are legendary, and I'm well-versed in them. Also..." I moved with a quiet moan, as if stretching, a blade coming to my hand. I smiled. "I'm armed now. I could cut these bindings and be out of here on my own time."

He jumped to his feet, and moved around me, behind me. I licked my lips, enjoying the scent of his fear in the air, and I languidly moved my wrist so that the blade could glint in the pale light.

"Son of a bitch," I heard him curse behind me. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph..." He came back to me, his lips hung open in shock. "Yer fuckin' serious."

"Why would I lie to you?" I asked him. Was I drunk? I thought back... I hadn't eaten much of anything in the three days they'd held me. Maybe some water... His kindness had been the first since I'd been captured. Horrible as it was, his drink had a kick to it. It was possible.

His eyes flashed with something dark, his breathing thin, and he licked his lips. I swallowed, too.

 _There. That's the look_ , I told myself. Pretty. And foreign.

And _dangerous_.

"Hot fuckin' damn," he whispered, a reverent thing. I twirled the blade in my fingers, debating if I should just untie myself now and be done with the charade...

"I could undo myself now," I offered. "But if I rescue myself, there's no deal."

He twisted his lips. "What kinda people are you?" he asked. From anyone else, it would have been insulting. But I'd seen the coyote sniffing, _Are you rabbit or snake?_  What he found was something wholly different, and he couldn't categorize it. It scared him, intrigued him, and he didn't know what to do with it.

Do I eat it? Does it eat me? Do I help him, or does he kill me?

I could see his mind racing through a limited list of options and possibilities, and then he let out a shuddering breath, and he took another swig.

And then a second gulp and a third. He only let down the flask to gasp for air and capped it. His boots moved behind me, and I flipped the blade where he could see, tucking it away in my sleeve.

"Fuckin' hell," he whispered, and I felt the warmth of him behind me. I leaned my head against the post, listening to his thin and ragged breathing...

_"Fuckin' hell," he cursed, bound below me. "Oh, Jesus..."_

_"Your gods have no power here," I told him, taking my pleasure from him..._

His fingers tugged and pulled, and my hands were loosened faster than a blade could manage. I wondered if there was a trick to the knot they'd used that he knew, and I wanted to ask him.

But instead, I turned on him, pinning him to the ground with a yelp. I slapped a hand over his mouth, the blade still in my hand, glistening above him.

"McCree? You alright?"

I warned him with my eyes, and move my fingers away from his lips. He had this moment to decide if I would kill him or spare him.

He swallowed hard, his breathing thin and ragged, his eyes wide and fearful as he regarded me. "Y-yeah! Fine. Jus... tripped on my boot," he answered. I slapped my hand over his lip again, and he let out the smallest whimper in his throat.

I closed my eyes, knowing that sound would haunt me.

"Fuckin' klutz." His partner chuckled.

"He gets stupid around pretty girls. And boys, apparently."

"Somethin' wrong with that boy..."

I smirked down at him, my eyes flashing open. "Your lie is a clever one," I commended him. "They do not suspect."

His eyes still regard me with fear, his hands held to either side of his face in a display of surrender, the dog showing his belly. Even his hat is off to one side.

_Those same eyes, wide and wanting, gagged beneath me, hands bound to a bedpost, the way his quiet whimpers delight and distract me as I torment him with unspoken pleasures..._

"I have a secret for you," I whispered, leaning over him.

The fear turns to confusion, bafflement.

"If it were not for your reckless kindness... You'd all be dead right now."

His eyes search mine, brow furrowing, but something clicks. He goes still, even, his breathing softening. I lean back, removing my hand, and the blade flips away back into my sleeve.

"K-kindness?" he asked.

I rise over him and offer him a hand. He takes it, and it is big and broad and warm, and when he pulls on me, I do not give. It surprises him, as he gets on his feet, an eye on me always as he stoops for his hat. He puts it back on, tucking it behind.

I reach for the flask, uncapping it, and I, too, take a swig. It is awful, but the burn is good... I take my fill, and it drips dry. I shake it, tongue out for the last taste of it, and hum, smacking my lips. I screw it shut, and offer it to him.

There is that want in his eyes. I file it away for later, and I smirk.

"The hell are you?" he asked again, with awe shaking his voice.

"I am dragon," I answered, undoing the gi, and properly tucking my kimono. He watched me, and I let him. His fingers tapped idly on the flask, his eyes wandering, but I pretended not to notice as wrapped myself again, tied the gi, slid it behind me.

"...Dragon," he echoed. "That's what your tattoo is."

"I am of the Shimada clan," I added. "It is our spirit animal. My ancestors have worn and controlled the dragons for generations."

His face shifted to a way I can't describe. "Controlled?"

"Mm. My dragons could devour all of you... But you are not worth troubling them." I pulled out two blades, spinning them in the air. "I am capable enough on my own."

He looked down to his flask with all the quiet panic of a man facing the firing squad. "Yeah. No kidding." I saw him regretting its emptiness, and he looked to the doorway to the other room.

I looked, too.

He took a breath, long and ragged. Fearful. "I'm gonna die today."

"Not necessarily."

Both of us were surprised at my tenderness, and I hid my blades. I stepped toward him, and he braced, tensed. I touched his shirt, feeling the texture of it, worn wool, hot and hardened by the sun, how solid he felt beneath it. I squeezed at the fist wrapped around the flask, fingers wandering over the smooth leather of his glove, finding where it's aged and worn at the edges where it bent... the coarseness of his hairs, the salty dampness of his skin. I looked into his eyes, and he was... startled. Surprised. He didn't know what to do. The hand on his shirt moved to his shoulder, squeezing the muscle there, tense and rigid. I moved along his collarbone, ghosting over the edge of his shirt, touching the soft skin of his neck. He gasped, and I leaned closer, and for a scarce moment, perhaps both of us thought I might kiss him.

I brushed a thumb over the edge of his jaw, and I could hear the thin, short gasps of his breath. I slipped my fingers into the damp hair, slick with sweat, his eyes dark and wanting, but also touched by fear and doubt. The other hand moved to his hip, thumb tracing where his shirt met his belt, and he bit back a groan. My fingers worked over the leather, feeling the worn braid of it, belt loops with rough, handsewn edges. The hard curve of his holster, warm steel unrelenting and smooth as I caressed it, my fingers raking a gentle claw under his jaw.

I felt him swallow, and his eyes closed. I had him at my mercy. He could fight me, shoot me, and I could easily steal his gun or knife him here... And yet, what I really wanted, I couldn't bring myself to do.

The southerly hand moved over the holster, finding his thigh. He whimpered, a tiny, almost-not-there sound that I wouldn't have heard were I not sharing the air he breathed... It was intoxicating, these little sounds he made. No way to disguise his want, as my claws dragged over his thigh and his legs parted for me on instinct. My hand cupped him and he gasped, lips parting in a pant, and his head tilted back. I wanted to mark him, bite him, _taste_ him, make him my own, feeling the hardness I had instilled in him.

 _I have done this_ , I told myself, thrilling at the notion. I had never encountered someone who desired me in this way. Or I had, I suppose, but it had never been mutual. Anyone I desired was not this way. The ones who desired me were undeserving. It was never meant to be. But _this_...

I scraped against his chin, taking in my own breath, thin and ragged. I stroked him, and he moved ever so slightly with me.

 _How far will this go?_  I wondered.

He swallowed hard. "Don't torment me," he begged me, quiet and low. "Please. I'm just a foolish boy. I didn't mean to offend."

I froze. He did not realize how selfish I was being, tracing all of these moments for my own later use... He did not realize I was returning his favors. I had made no notion of such...

In his eyes, I was mocking him, teasing him, tormenting him for his indiscretion. I inwardly recoiled at the thought, that anyone could be so heartless and cruel to another person, and yet I took a moment to assess the situation from his perspective.

Manipulative. Catty. Omission. Poisonous deals offered from behind prison bars when the inmate already had the keys in their possession. He had no reason to trust any of this.

I hissed in his ear. "Why should I?" I let myself taste, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Perhaps I like to watch you squirm... As you did me."

He whimpered, and god what that sound did to me. "I'm sorry," he breathed, panting still. "I'm only 16, please. I don' wanna die."

 _Sixteen_. He was younger than I was. It was true -- his hands and feet were so big, and he had yet to truly grow into the broad back he wore. I snarled, squeezing, and he bit back a yelp.

"With the company you keep, you will not live very long," I warned him. "It would do you well to find better friends."

He nodded, quickly, my fingers moving to his neck as he did so. I think he shuddered. "Th-that's fair enough." And then I turned that squeeze into a stroke, and he seemed to melt, a soft groan. "Ah, hell..."

"You curse a lot," I added.

"I been told," he whispered. This whole time, his hands had been hovering around me... And now they carefully moved closer. As I stroked, he found the bravery to touch my arms, and he leaned back against a wall, closing his eyes and bowing his head. He let out a low, gravelly sound that might have been a murmur.

"You should not call other men 'pretty'," I added, but my voice is gentle.

His lips twitched. "Some of 'em like it."

"A lot of them don't," I answered. I nuzzled my nose to him, and his lips parted, expecting, and yet I could not bring myself to do it, pulling away, teasing. He groaned, wanting, and he moved against my hand. His arms pulled me closer, and I let him, my fingers twisting in his hair.

"You seem to like it," he whispered in my ear, and I gasped as well.

"I didn't say that," I answered, a whisper of my own.

"You didn't have to." His hands moved over me, then paused at my back, the tug and pull of his gloves coming off. My pace on him quickened, and then his hands were on me again, sliding over my kimono, fingertips dipping into the curve of my spine through the silks. I arched into his touch, my mouth at the crook of his neck, and I tasted again, the salty skin, hot like the desert, and I nipped. His hips bucked into my hand, and I pressed close.

I _wanted_ this. Had wanted something like this for so long... Something I could never have. It was forbidden, and wanton, and here I was, buried in the arms of a complete stranger, a handsome outlaw, a poor-born peasant who didn't even know where Japan _was_ on a map, and yet he had me doing things I had only dreamed of...

"Imagine if I hadn't," he added, and his lips were on my skin, and I felt my composure crumbling around me. "You'd have knifed me in my sleep without a second thought."

"I still might," I warned him.

And he chuckled, a low and breathy thing that made my knees buckle. And he sighed. "Maybe you could use somethin' else..."

His hands gripped my ass, and I gasped at his audacity, and at the utter surprise of how much I liked it. I squeezed at him, and he groaned.

"You keep doin' that, I'm gonna make a mess," he confessed, voice ragged, and oh, how I wanted to hear him say that again...

"Are you?" I asked.

"Yeah..." He made it a sigh, and then his lips were on my skin again, biting hard, and it was my turn to swallow a yelp, as my fingers twisted in his hair, holding on for dear life, stroking desperately.

 _I am going to suffer for this_ , I told myself. _I will suffer for this for a long, long time..._

I wanted him below me, sighing that 'yeah' for the rest of my days. I wanted to be using my mouth instead of my hand, and see what different noises and curses he would make then. I wanted him to cover my skin with bites and kisses and--

"McCree? Yer bein' quiet again."

And he let out a bark of a laugh that shocked me, and my hands caught, a quiet whimper in my throat as my eyes flashed open. I had forgotten there was an audience. Cold ice crashed down my spine at the realization that at any moment, one of them could have walked in on us, found us like this, shot and killed us both for our indecency and shamelessness.

"I'm in the middle of a starin' contest," he said, a smooth lie. I leaned back my head to look him in the face, my eyes wide and wondering. His thumb found my jaw, and slid to the end of it, tugging at my chin. "I almost won, ye bastard."

A snort from the other room. "Good luck with that."

This time, I was the one caught. I tugged on his hair, and he leaned back, a smirk on his lips.

"You don't have to stop now," he purred, low and hungry. Obedient, I moved my hand again, and watched those dark eyes slide shut. He hummed, hand moving over my neck. It slid down into my shirt, and his nails scraped at my skin... I shuddered, pressing my hips against his.

"You could have given us away," I whispered, my fingers gentle in his hair now.

"Why would I do that?" he asked. He squeezed my ass again and I pressed closer.

I whimpered softly. "Because I am being cruel to you."

And he chuckled. "If this you bein' cruel, I'd hate to see you bein' kind," he purred. But there was a sweetness there. His thumb toyed at my ear, and his eyes opened to me. His lips parted in a sigh. "I am very close," he added, in a whisper.

I quirked my lips. "Should I stop?"

"I might kill ya if you do," he growled, gritting his teeth.

I chuckled this time, and his eyes rolled in the back of his head. I hummed, making my strokes slow and deliberate this time.

The beginnings of another curse slid from his lips. "I don't even know your name, angel."

"It is better that way," I answered him. I have never been called an angel before. Demon, sure... But never an angel.

He swallowed hard. "Gotta call you somethin'."

"No, you don't." And his eyes flashed as I moved in his arms, lowering myself to my knees.

His breath caught. "You don't hafta--"

"I do not want you to make a mess," I offered, a shy smile on my lips. His face contorted, but his eyes were black. His hands were fists at his side.

" _Hell_ ," he hissed.

"I am sure that's where we're going," I agreed. I nuzzled my mouth to him, and he clapped a hand over his own mouth to bite back a groan. My fingers tested the fabric, and I undid the little buttons there. I reached in, and he hissed as I touched him, hips moving with me as I pulled out--

_Hella big, innit?_

Oh my.

It glistened, and I touched it with a hand, so much like my own, and yet not. I moved my thumb over the tip, teasing the wetness of him around, and his boots slipped until he found a better position. When I touched my tongue to it, I looked up at him squeezing his eyes shut, face red, and he let out a small, strangled noise.

I licked, he whimpered. I looked up, and those eyes were boring into mine. I wrapped my lips around him, and he moaned.

I worked him, mouth and hand, artless, not really knowing what I was doing, but if he made a sound, I did it again. I found teasing my tongue underneath would make him gasp, so I kept doing that. I sucked, noisy and messy, and it felt ridiculous, but for the noises he was making, I would squeal like a pig, and it made me red to think of it. I could feel myself hard and pulsing, wanting, and I knew now more than ever that yes, this was something I wanted -- no, _needed_ in my life -- and when I got back to Japan I was going to have to find a way--

"Baby, please--" he hissed, and his hands were on me, my shoulder, my neck, my hair. I listened, and his hands held me, and he bucked into me. It felt so wild, so wicked, so desperate and selfish, and yet, I clung to him, wanting him to do it again. It was a reckless abandon, and I let him use me, use me as I'd never been used before in my life, and I _relished_ every moment of it... He whimpered, he mewled, and if it weren't for the two compatriots not so far away, I wondered what kind of mad noises he would have made for me...

"God damn it!" he bit out, loud and angry, and it startled me, but for the laughter from the others.

"Don't let him kick your ass!" Earl called back.

"Damned kid..."

I looked up at him, and he watched me with a face crumpled in an expression... I had never seen before.

"Fuck..." he breathed, and a whimpering moan, as he bucked into me.

My own breathing was thin and messy, uneven and ragged, nose snuffles that were full of _him_ , salt and sweat and musk and something else I couldn't name, earthy and wonderful, and then he bit out another curse as I felt him clench in my mouth, the spat of something at the back of my throat, and I whimpered. The sound made him gasp, as his whole body twitched, and I licked my tongue along him, tasting this sweet, salty something that I had never tasted before...

 _Oh god_ , I thought. _I am ruined._

Gasping and trembling above me, his vice grip lessened. He looked down at me, awed and slack-jawed, and I gasped as he let me go.

"Jesus..." he whispered.

I smiled, my tongue taking all of that wonderful, strange new taste and I swallowed it. He groaned in the back of his throat, fingers tracing my neck, and I opened my lips with a sigh.

"Fuck are you?" he asked again in an awed whisper. He gasped when I touched my mouth to him again, licking every bit of him, a whimper when I sucked on the tip, taking the last of that sweet nectar from him.

I swallowed, and licked my lips. "I am dragon," I said, and hummed.

"All dragons as wonderful as you?" he asked, carding his fingers through my hair. Who had ever called me wonderful?

I closed my eyes, leaning into his tender touch. "I do not think so."

He let out a soft chuckle, his fingers now caressing my face. I looked up at him...

Adoration? Was that what that was? I had never had anyone look at me like that before.

"Yer gon' get me killed," he whispered, that fear flashing in his eyes. A regret.

"Not if I can help it," I answered. I clutched him, jealous and possessive. _Mine_. I would protect him. Keep him safe.

He sighed. "God, I hope yer right." He was gentle, a wish in his eyes that didn't reach his lips. I turned my head to kiss his wrist, and he gave me the smallest, most tender, fragile smile I'd ever seen.

I would keep him safe. I would take him away from here. Away from Earl and whoever, all these fools who toyed with powers greater than they could comprehend. I wanted to take him with me, to Japan. Or if not there, at least to California. Or Mexico. Or Canada...

And I realized I did. I wanted to take him away. I wanted to run away. With him.

And abandon my family?

Genji, my mother, my father, the elders, the clan. All the people who depended on me, entire galas full of people, looking to me as their prince, ready to take the throne someday very soon. And yet, when he was holding me like this, fingers slipping through my hair like I was made of diamonds, looking at me with those eyes, calling me 'angel' in that voice...

I wanted very much to do nothing more than be with him, Shimadas be damned.

"Alright, I'mma give you one last chance," he announced, loud enough for them to hear.

I smirked, rising, letting my claws climb up the length of him, lanky and broad, a massive framework he had yet to fill out. I wondered if he would be lean or burly when it was all said and done. What he would look like as an old man, graying and wrinkled. I wondered what his face would look like when he returned the favor...

He sighed. "You are trouble," he murmured. "With a capital T."

This time, when he reached for the kiss, I gave it to him. I sighed into it, pressing against him, and his arms wrapped around me, sweeping over me, a hand reaching for my ass again. I chuckled at the squeeze, and we parted with smiles.

"You shouldn't grab another man's ass like that," I teased.

He did it again anyway. "Some people like it."

I growled in protest, and his grin got bigger.

"You are a fuckin' wonder," he said, eyes wandering over me. "You could kill me dead, and instead..." He shook his head. "What the hell."

I lowered my gaze to his shirt... My fingers teased at his skin. "...No one has ever called me pretty before."

He snorted. "I know that's a damned lie."

I shrugged. "If they did..." I looked up at him. "I never heard it with such sincerity."

His hands lingered at the small of my back. He made me feel small, but not in a diminishing way. Rather, he felt big, bigger than me, big enough to wrap me in his arms and hide me from the terrors of the world. Like I could curl into him and disappear.

"Well you are," he whispered. "Gorgeous even. Yer eyes... are like storm clouds. Monsoon comin' up over the mountains."

My head tilted to one side. _Monsoon_. I did not know this word.

His lips twitched. "You don't say a whole lot."

I shook my head, smiling. He chuckled. He touched my chin again, and I eagerly gave him the kiss, my fingers teasing at his collar.

 _This will be my first love,_ I thought to myself, pouring as much gratitude and heartbreak as I could into our joining. _He does not know what he will mean to me._

As if he could taste it, he pulled away, his eyes searching mine.

...And then, a glimmer of recognition. "Holy shit."

My eyes narrowed. "You curse too much."

And then a laugh... And another. And then a rolling one, loud and merry. "Holy shit..."

"Did you get 'im?" the fool answered. I snarled.

"I did," he answered, smug. His eyes shined, merry with mischief as he looked down at me. "First time for everythin', ah?"

I went scarlet, eyes going wide, and I looked down.

He laughed again, holding me close, and I buried my shame in him -- yes, he was hairy in the chest, too. My fingers clutched like claws.

_How could he know?_

He squeezed me with a soft hum. "Darlin', yer jes the mos' precious thing I ever saw," he said, warm and happy against my hair. Panic... sheer, bloody panic struck me, and while I would think his voice could undo it, instead it was like warm, spiced honey layering over a hard wall of cold steel. He sighed. "I'm touched. Honored, really."

I pulled away from him, lip curling in rage as I glared up at him... But his eyes were kind, laughing. Not in mockery at all. My scowl softened, but my glare stayed.

"You don't trust a soul, do you?" he whispered.

Something in me broke, and I looked down again, fingers fists in his shirt. His hands moved over my back, and he pressed a kiss to my temple.

It caught me so off guard, I looked up at him, confused.

He just shook his head. "Straaange creature." And he hugged me tight again, making a warm sound that I felt deep in my bones... Offense or not, I relished how big he was around me, enveloping me, drowning me in him.

I could happily drown in him forever.

But he stepped away from me, one last squeeze on my arm, and I immediately felt cold from his absence. His hands put himself back in his pants with a sigh, buttoning up. "Strange..." he muttered again, bending for his hat, wobbling a little on his feet with a giggle, then dusted off his hat and put it back on.

"You'll want to get back in position," he added, pointing to the place where I'd been tied.

I knew he was right... But I really wanted to follow him, wrap my arms around him, stay with him forever. I moved back to the place, sitting again.

"We'll do best 3 out of 5," he added, speaking up. He moved behind me, those hands on mine, gentle. He wound the rope and tied it. "See here?" he whispered. "Pull on this."

I did as he instructed, and it fell apart easily. I felt something tight in my chest loosen, and he repeated the knot. My fingers clung to that twist, and I even smiled.

"Arigatou," I whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Arigatou," I said, a little louder. "It means 'thank you'."

"Mmm."

And then I gasped as I felt his hand on my neck, pulling my hair aside. He pressed a kiss there, and I whimpered softly. There were boots, and I watched the two fellows come back in.

"Hey, McCree--" The one who was not Earl chuckled, hands on his hips. "Well well. Staring contest?"

"I won for once," he growled from behind me, and I shivered.

"You back here tormentin' this poor boy?" he asked. "You more twisted than I thought."

"Ye ain't got no idea," he purred in my ear. A hand went over my throat, and I swallowed against his fingers as they stroked my skin. His lips tugged at my ear, and I felt exposed again.

"Well, I hate to break up your fun times," he said, Earl making disgusted noises as he went back to the other room, "But the crew is on their way back. I'm afraid you gotta give the princess back."

"Aww, c'mon. Gimme 10 minutes." His teeth tugged at my ear and I hissed.

He chuckled. "You're sick." But he was grinning. He tipped his hat at me. "Ma'am."

"Ho ho ho!" McCree chortled in my ear. "You hear that? He called you 'ma'am'. How disrespectful."

I seethed, watching him go, and then I turned to glare at him sideways. "Speaks of disrespectful."

"Have to sell it, darlin'," he purred. He sighed in my ear and I shivered. "That erection of yours don't hide too well in your position."

I bit my lip, face aflame. "I will kill you."

"I thought we agreed otherwise," he teased, finger still stroking my neck. Part of me thrilled at this... The part that didn't hate the other man for calling me 'princess' and 'ma'am', or the other for his disgusted noises. They made me feel like a fiend, a monster, something inhuman and unclean... And he jested with them.

He was different, and yet, he lied to them. How could I know he was not lying to me? Maybe he was the same. Just... twisted.

"Besides. I distinctly remember you jumpin' me, sweetheart. Not the other way around."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Remembering how I had indulged myself in the sensations... Wanting more to remember him by...

His fingers crept lower, under my shirt, and I gasped.

"Oh... You ain't never been touched like this, have you?" he whispered.

I realized it was not a gasp but a sob in my throat this time. I shook my head. "Never..."

He sighed. "Poor baby..." He tweaked at a nipple, and I whimpered. "If I had the time... Oh, I'd love you right."

I believed him.

"Aishiteru," I whispered.

His lips kissed my cheek. "I'm sorry for what's gon' happen. I want you to remember this... As a good thing. Pretend that after this... I untied you, took you away somewhere nice. We had wine or whiskey... Whichever you like better." He sighed, another kiss on my neck, and I felt tears burning in my eyes as his arm wrapped around me. "We talked. Shared stories. I got you somethin' real nice for your birthday." Another kiss and his words wavered. "And when we made love, we both cried."

I nodded. I sniffed, blinking furiously. I could hear the horses and carts and chatter outside. _They're here._

"My name is Jesse," he whispered. "What's yours?"

I sobbed. "Hanzo," I said, voice a warbling song. "Hanzo... Shimada." I gasped. "I am heir to the Shimada Clan." I sniffed. "I am a Prince in Japan." I shook my head as a tear slipped down one cheek. "You cannot come find me. They will kill you."

He sighed, his hand sliding over my skin. "I'm already a dead man."

He squeezed my shoulder and I wrenched my eyes shut, my heart breaking. _Jesse_ , I thought to myself. _Jesse McCree_. The outlaw who stole my heart.

I can't forget him.

I hear the clicking of a hammer, and I gasp, blinking furiously. I feel the muzzle of his gun at the back of my head, and bile comes to my throat.

He is a very good liar, I thought to myself. I hoped this scene went as well as we could hope.

The man who is not Earl steps in with one of my father's lieutenants. His eyes flash with fury as he takes in the scene. To see his prince tied up is a disgrace. To see me choking back tears means they have broken me, which is a great deal worse. He grits his teeth, his eyes looking to Jesse -- my Jesse -- and then to the other man.

" _Untie him_ ," he hissed.

"Hold on, now," the outlaw crooned. "We got more to arrange, son." He swaggered out. "Still a matter of payment..."

The lieutenant looked to me. "[We will get you out of this,]" he promised, and he glared daggers at Jesse behind me. "[They will all pay.]"

"[Vengeance will be done,]" I assured him. He nodded, a tight and subtle smirk on his face, and then he directed an eye of loathing to my Jesse. He turned with a huff.

The gun clicked behind me and he let out a breath. "I'm gon' die," he groaned. "Well... At least I got somethin' nice out of it."

Breathing thin, I tugged at my ropes, and they came free. As if I had doubted him, as if he would change the knots on me. If he had a chance to fuck with me, that would have been the time.

And he didn't.

I stood, pulling out my blades, and I turned to him, grabbing him by his shirt, fingers still wrapped around my blades. My kiss was wet with tears, and I whimpered into it. His right hand wrapped around me, tugging me close, a paw at my hip, the other holding his gun to the side.

He sighed, resting his head against me. "I'm sorry we had to meet like this," he whispered.

I shook my head, my fingers stroking his beautiful face, my eyes memorizing it for my dreams. "I am happy we met at all." Another frantic kiss and he looked in pain.

"I wish I coulda done better for ya," he croaked.

"You did _fine_ ," I hissed. And I struck out at him, slashing him across the throat.

He cried out. " _Son of a bitch!"_   It was genuine surprise, his eyes widening in betrayal.

Heart breaking, I put a hand to his mouth, shoving him against a wall. "Go down, _anata_ ," I whispered, tears in my eyes. "Go down, play dead..." He crumpled to his feet, his eyes watching me as I sobbed. " _Live_."

He swallowed and nodded. I let go of him, and he let out a pained sob of his own and slumped in place. I took a fist full of his hair and kissed his head.

" _Sayonara_ ," I whispered. "I will never forget you."

I swear I saw a tear slip down his own cheek, as I stood with a sob in my throat.

_Why are the ancestors so cruel?_

I wiped away my tears on my sleeve, letting my fear and panic and anguish fuel me as I came into the next room. Everyone was outside, and there was a clatter of blades and gunpowder. I summoned my pain, and fed it to the beasts, crying out the spell that would summon my dragons. There were screams of terror, pain, anguish. And victory. The dragons feasted, jealous, possessed. Our enemies were devoured, and they would learn to never combat the Shimadas again.

I stepped out, blood on my blade, and my dragons writhing in the air. My father's lieutenant did not ask -- he _knew_ I took vengeance on the man who was tormenting me. He did not know that he was tormenting me still, or that he was alive and in mourning behind me. They took my tired smile for my tribulations, and if I was quiet, it was nothing out of the ordinary. They had a carriage for me, and I stared out the window, watching the desolate landscape spool out around us.

At night, we camped. My father's men told me that it was not hard to find me, that the Deadlock Gang was very loud and boastful. Other bands of clansmen were hunting them down now, easily finding them, killing them, and wreaking vengeance on my behalf. I was grateful, and said so.

As we drank our tea, a mournful cry broke out in the stillness of the night. It chilled my bones and I looked about, seeking out the source.

"[What was that?]" I asked.

"Koyote?" one offered.

"Kai-yo-ta," another said.

"Kaiyoti," said a third.

They playfully bickered with the pronunciation, but I listened again as one called out, and then another.

 _Coyote_. I had seen them, heard of them... But not _heard_ them. Their cry was... pained. Agonised. Longing. Desperate. A beg. _Come back_. Come find me. Please... Don't leave me out here all alone.

It twisted at my heart, and I pulled my blanket closer around my shoulders. I blinked away the beginnings of tears and sipped my tea. One of my father's men -- when would I get used to calling them _my_ men? -- offered me a sympathetic smile and a jug of sake. I thanked him with a smile and took a long swig.

It was good sake. Strong and fragrant, and nothing like the watered down hooch that the coyote had given me. And yet... I wished I could pass it to him.

_"Here."_

_He smirked. "What's this?"_

_"Sake." I smiled. "Try it."_

_He eyed me, wary. "Alright..." He took a swig and made a face. Looking down at it. "Woah."_

_I giggled, a silly noise in my nose. "You make the cutest faces."_

_He smiled, a lazy, fond thing. "Says you, angel." He took another swig, not taking those adoring eyes away from me._

I took a long drink... a second, a third. I stopped only to breathe, and then I drank again. I clutched it to my chest, jealous, and the man went for a new one. I bit my lip as I thought of him, lips on my neck, hand in my kimono...

_"If I had the time... I'd love you right."_

I took another long swig, and then took my tea, finishing it, and leaving it by the fire. I was pleased to see the man came back with two jugs, and he handed me one with understanding kindness. I thanked him, and then went back to my own tent.

I broke into tears there, kneeling on my knees, burying my face in my hands.

"[Why?]" I mewled to no one. "[Why do you hate me so much? Why must I suffer so?]"

Even the dragons wormed under my skin, wanting to hold me, to comfort me, but they were within and not without. I grabbed the jug, nearly empty, and I tilted it upside down, pouring the last of it down my throat. When it was gone, I coughed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

_"Aishiteru," I whispered to him, fingers stroking my cheek._

_This time, he understood what it meant, and his face crumples. "Baby, I love you, too."_

_We crushed into a kiss, his arms wrapped around me, and mine around his neck, and he held me until my tears were gone._

In the cold, I had nothing to hold but this jug of sake, and I wept as I listened to the mournful cry of the coyote, lost and alone in the wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm not crying, you're crying. If I don't get fanart of that last kiss, blades and panic, I am disowning all of you.


	2. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospitality. Often not the best kind, but it makes you appreciate kindness all the more. And at the end... A shimmer of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention racism? Lots of racism. And foul language. And some action! But also racism.

This place is a shit hole.

And mind you, I say that as someone who is Yakuza -- well, _was_  Yakuza -- and has picked my way through opium dens and bathhouses and whore houses and chased down a kite chaser or five in my time. I've seen people living in actual rubbish. And yet, something about the American desert makes _everyone_  a scrounging, miserable beast. They flit from town to town like so many rats, lizards seeking shade under one deplorable rock or another.

And yet, each watering hole and semblance of civilization is a beacon of hope to the desperate fool who has been marching in the wilderness alone, on foot or by horse. Having a horse means faster travel, but more cargo to have stolen. On foot, you are less likely to be spotted, but the desert herself will make it her mission to destroy. Regardless, it always takes forever to get anywhere. What joy you have for finding humanity quickly diminishes when you are used to palaces and pristine gardens. Servants and geisha. In comparison, everything here is a fucking shit hole.

I asked the wench at the bar for water. Something cold. She gave me a smirk and came back with water, alright. Water the color of Chinese fireworks, yellow smoke in the sky.

 _Hai-ya_. It tasted like dirt, and I wondered what the hell they were doing to their wells, exactly. Or if it was just that everything was covered in dust and it couldn't be helped. I changed tactic and ordered a whiskey, the whole bottle, as if that might help. She took my cash with a friendlier smile, and served it with a glass, cracking open the top for me and pouring the first. I thanked her, dry and without sincerity. She returned the favor with a likewise curtsy.

There were three fools playing poker at another table. A white man, his skin orange and his hair yellow. The one next to him looked a bit Native, reddish with dark hair, styled in a would-be sophisticated way. The third had the swollen brown of a Mexican.

" _Mira al Chino_ ," he muttered to his compatriots.

 _I'm not Chinese_ , I thought, not for the first or even eighteenth time. At this point, I didn't even care to correct them.

" _Bebiendo una botella, tambien_ ," one answered. " _Que rico_."

I sniffed in my nose. _I wish, buddy._  I sipped the drink, and... Well, it was whiskey. Not sake. It was harsh and unkind on my tongue. But it burned nice. I downed the shot with a groan. I licked my lips, debating if I didn't want to just make love to this bottle...

"Reckon he has anything worth the trouble?"

I think maybe the bottle. I take a swig, making a face and cursing my luck. The ancestors always had it out for me. I've decided that years ago. What moments of happiness I ever had were taken without their consent. And I was always punished for that.

"Perhaps..."

They are still talking. My good ears are a burden sometimes. Good for keeping away from the snakes and monsters, but sometimes the monsters wore boots and hats and sat at a table not playing poker or minding their own business. The wench at the bar was eyeing me with suspicion, looking down her nose at this slanty-eyed ruffian who dared to ask her for cold water and whiskey. This land was not friendly to foreigners. Oh, Americans talked a big game, but they took great pride in their pack hierarchy. Maybe a skin tone could be forgiven over time, but in the meanwhile, it was us versus them. They just saw me as a grain of rice, a small part of a bigger problem. A bowl of troubles that had spilled over the ocean to snatch at the wilderness of heat and buried promises that the Americans believed they rightfully owned.

After all, they had bought this part from the French and stolen that part from the Spanish, and the reds were just round up and shot like so much dust left on the floor of a mud room. You should have taken your shoes off, chan. Now look at this mess. Nevermind that the reds were here first, and were fed their own promises, gifts the whites would pluck right back out of their mouths as soon as it suited them.

Oh, America was an unkind place. It was wild and free. A nation started by scoundrels and pirates. What could be expected of a country founded on such debauchery and wanton destruction?

I sipped my whiskey, debating if I dared to ask the wench for food. I wondered if she would give me stale bread, or bland gravy on toast. Maybe a bean soup that was more water than bean. I stopped hoping for real food when I left California. If I wanted meat, I had to kill it myself. Rattlers were gamey, the javelina terrifying to take on your own. The coyotes were too ravenous, numbered high enough they could take a man on his own without so much as batting an eye. Even the vultures followed close, waiting for one fatal misstep...

Fuck all of them. I hate this place.

I stood, and if I wavered, I told myself it was the heat. The desert. It was not kind to me. The drink didn't help. I needed to eat something. Another swig, spicy and cruel to the tongue, and I capped it. I reached for my bag, sliding it inside.

I could hear them stepping behind me, and I slipped a knife to each hand.

"Pardon me, mister--"

I reached for the hand on my shoulder, and another claw reached back for his collar, and I leaned forward, dragging him before me, slamming his back on the table with a gasp.

"You son of a--"

The next one came at me with a bottle, and I sliced at his arm, making him drop it on his own boot with a howl.

The third, however, had a gun.

I hesitated, knives at the ready, a drop of sweat on my brow.

"Now you jes' stop that," he said. It was the one with the nice moustache.

"You were the one trying to rob me," I replied.

"Nonsense. He just said 'pardon me'," he answered. "You seem a mite jumpy. You must be new in town."

I worked my jaw. I'd seen this before. A pretense of cordiality, innocence, polite conversation. Right before they tried to stab you in the back.

"I don't want a quarrel with you," I said. But I did not lower my knives.

I heard the click of another gun behind me, and I snarled. I looked back, and it was the damn bar wench with a shotgun.

[Fucking cowards], I muttered to myself.

"What you say?" Mr. Fancy asked.

[Fucking cowards], I repeated, a smirk on my lips. "Don't you speak Japanese?"

"Japanese?" he asked, blinking, confused--

That always got them.

I darted forward, and then to the side. Surprised, he almost fired, before remembering he was pointed at her, and she likewise yelped, raising her gun from him.

"Sheeyit!"

I came behind him, striking my elbow into a joint, and he went down with a shout. She swang the gun towards me, and I roll, dodging past tables.

"God damn yellow son of a bitch!" she hollered.

 _Americans. So welcoming_ , I thought to myself, darting between tables, another bastard caught me around a corner, hollering, his own gun pointed at me, and I darted--

He shot, and I ignored the blinding pain as I leapt for him. His eyes went wide, a curse on his lips, and I returned the favor with a knife in his shoulder. A grip and a twist, and he was down, too. I leapt over him, making for the door, and the damned wench shot wild.

The wood splintered behind me. Adrenaline kept me moving, while a part of me observed she was a good shot. _Too good_. Almost 'bought the farm', as they say. Knowing they'd make chase, I turned the corner, scaling a stack of barrels, fingers and boots catching at the windows of the building. It took work to add the blades, but they had saved my life more times than I cared to admit. I flung myself to the roof, making a clatter I'm sure, but the insistent wench shouting all manner of racial slurs (--oh my. I hadn't heard that one before) was swinging around her shotgun. I slid down between two window outposts, locking my bladed boots into the shoddy roofwork. I stayed there, crouched, listening... They hollered and hollered, directing 'help' this way and that.

_Ai-ya..._

I let out a breath, resting my head on the melted tile. I was really tired of this. Every town... Seemed all of them were the same. Shitty bar, shitty hooch house, sneering everyone. Even the chinks treated me like shit once they realized I wasn't their shade of yellow. They still remembered the wars between my set of islands and their mainland. I was _persona non grata_ no matter where I went...

I sighed, feeling the shakes catch me then. The dull ache of pain as I clutched my shoulder with a hiss.

 _Don't let them see you quake._  It was easier said than done, some days. I reached into my satchel, and pulled out the whiskey, dousing some of it on my wound, making myself reek of alcohol. I felt tired... exhausted. I had just wanted a drink, maybe some food, a bed... I swallowed hard, bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a hard swig that hurt so much...

I gasped, bringing it down on the tile with a quiet whimper.

...Maybe ask around. See if anyone knew the name McCree. Just once... Just once. A lead. Something...

The further East I went, the more despair. I felt like I was doomed to wander this world forever. Tormented by my past, my sins, my skin...

I almost wanted to go home, to Japan... Only, Japan was not my home anymore. I had no home. I was a wanderer, a ronin, a soldier with no Master or homeland to protect. A prince without a kingdom. A rebel without a cause.

The only thing I had left was a childish dream, a juvenile fancy, a star-crossed experience that I had clung to over the years, crafting an impossible altar out of a broken man.

...I wondered who he was now. If he hadn't died in a shootout years ago. If maybe he was someone's father or husband. How unwelcome I would be, an intrusion on his proper life. Maybe he had sorted himself out, gotten better. Changed his crowd and gone straight.

I smiled, a sad thing, and I sipped my whiskey.

...Even that would be a wonderful thing to witness. Hope that maybe the world wasn't so bad after all. A romantic part of me wanted to declare fealty to him, take him on as my charge. He wouldn't understand my customs, I am sure, but maybe it would be a worthy cause. Maybe...

Unlikely... But it would be nice.

Things quieted, and I screwed the cap back on. I undid my boots, stepping carefully to the edge. It was a good drop, but I had made worse...

I landed with a pained grunt, a curse on my lips as I clutched my wound. It needed cleaning, and maybe to pull out the bullet. From up high, I'd seen a couple houses with the paper lanterns of China... I told myself to swallow my pride and lie a little. It would be that or my life...

I kept to the shadows, easier when you wore all black, hat tucked low so they could not see my yellow face. I passed the steam bath of a laundry and caught sight of a woman working there, her face slick with work, eyes tired.

[Good evening], I greeted.

She blinked up at me, eyes wide, a ghost from the darkness. I gave her a weak smile, letting her see my face.

[G-good evening], she answered. She paused in her work, and her face twisted in concern. [You're hurt.]

[Americans are not kind to people like us], I replied.

She cursed softly. [A moment-- Come in.] She beckoned me in, and I stepped in, a claw clutching my wound. The pain... It pulsed like hot fire, the burn of the liquor helping only so much. The woman called out and set me at a table in a tiny kitchen. She offered me tea, and I thanked her sincerely. As she made the tea, she watched me.

[...Your accent. It is strange. Are you not Cantonese?]

I closed my eyes, sighing through my nose. [No], I admitted. [But it is better than my Mandarin.]

Her eyes judged me. But she said nothing more as she made tea. A man came in, favoring one leg, old silks that had been carefully maintained, but had lost their glamor years ago.

[Good evening, and may fortune smile on you], he greeted with a smile.

[May the ancestors give you favor], I answered, nodding.

His eyebrows shot up. [Ancestors? Interesting...]

[He is not Chinese], she muttered.

[Not Chinese?] He looked to me. [An enigma. Where are you from, stranger?]

I hated this part of the conversation. I worked my jaw. [I am a lost Asian in the middle of the desert. Can that not be enough?]

He regarded me, a sly smile on his lips. He tapped a finger in the air. [You... twist those Rs. You are Japanese, yes?]

I deflated. "Hai."

He chuckled. "You have a beautiful language, I will say," he admitted. "Your kind are not welcome among most Chinese."

"Nor most Americans," I agreed.

"Indeed..." He turned to her. [Set some steam buns for our friend. He is weary and came to us for help. We must not disappoint.]

She did not like it, but she obliged him. The old man sat next to me and reached a hand towards my shoulder. I looked away but removed my clawed hand. Dark red blood coated my palm.

"Oh my... Bring us some of that wash water as well." He took a good whiff, grinning. "You tried to clean it yourself."

"I can not always count on good fortune to keep me alive," I replied. "My ancestors were a ruthless type. They expect me to solve my own problems."

He laughed, and we both smiled. "You have a sense of humor about you, at least. Maybe that is your downfall. They want to see what jests you will make next."

"Perhaps..." I felt myself ease. It was a rare thing to find kind strangers, but they gave me hope. I peeled off my coat with shuddering pain, blinking away tears before they could come, grinding my teeth to dust. By the time she had brought us tea and hot water with a towel, I was breathing quick, fingers opening my shirt.

I waited for his eyes to judge the blue ink that stained my skin. As he washed me, his eyes appraised it, but for a long time, he said nothing. Her eyes lingered longer, distrust turning to fear, and when she deposited the steam buns, she did so at an arm's length.

[Forgive my granddaughter], he said quietly, and I was surprised to hear my own tongue. [She is distrusting of most anyone.]

He did not speak as someone high born, naturally, but it still touched a part of my soul that was tied up in knots, and the dragons under my skin cooed in delight. [She has reason to be distrusting. In this place.]

"Mm." He regarded the wound, grabbing a candle and a blade. I grit my teeth, knowing this would hurt. He sighed. [I apologize for this.]

I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut. [Do what you can.]

I roared into a steam bun, gnashing my teeth on the dough and spiced meat. His kindness was a rare delight, and that he could pull a bullet from my shoulder was a blessing I could not put a price on. He cursed quietly, goading the iron to come out for him, cutting as he went. He was no doctor, but I didn't trust that whatever white man had a blood-stained pole in this town wouldn't turn me in to face justice for whatever crime I'd done to earn the shot. Not that I could trust he wouldn't do the same. I was counting on Asian solidarity and an eccentric old man's queer fondness for foreigners to keep me from death, and it wasn't a sure bet. After what felt like an eternity of blinding pain, he let out a cheery sound that made me swallow the blood in my mouth. I'd been biting my tongue like I oughtn't have, but he held up the thing to me like a cherry pit, his fingers coated in juice, and I felt myself pale.

[Your kindness cannot be repaid], I whispered.

"Ah, lives are easy to come by," he replied. "It is maintaining them that is the hard part." He twisted the towel in the water, cleaning me, and his own hands. She had brought by the sewing, and in comparison, this pain was almost pleasant. "Where in Japan do you hail from?"

"Hanamura," I answered. "It is north of Kyoto."

"Mm. I've not been to Kyoto. But I was in Tokyo a time."

I smiled. "Tokyo is beautiful. Especially in the spring."

"Yes... The cherry blossom festival. Always a delight."

I warned myself not to get comfortable, but between the dulling pain, the hot tea, the pleasant conversation... "My birthday is in the spring. I always shared a drink with Buddha. Watch the flowers."

He smiled. "A man of simple tastes."

"Elegant taste," I corrected, a smirk on my lips. "Not always simple."

He laughed. "Fair..." He taped a bandage to me. "It is a shame to cover your art."

"They are a burden anyway," I said, gently.

His eyes followed. "How far does it go?"

Grimacing, I tugged up my sleeve to the elbow, letting him see. His eyebrows shot up.

"That is quite a piece."

"It took several years," I admitted, a trace of pride. "My brother's was on his back..." _Was_. "My father's was on his right arm. Seemed fitting at the time I pick the other."

"And then your son will use the right," he finished. "Tradition is a good thing."

His assumption was kind, but it pained me. "Tradition is good."

He seemed to see my pain. "Still. It is better you came here. Next door is from Beijing, and not as nice as me."

I chuckled. "You stuck a knife in me. How friendly are you?"

"Ha ha ha! You are clever one." He toasted me a cup of tea, and I answered it, taking a drink.

"Mm-- I do not have much, but..." I pulled out the whiskey, still more than half full, and he waved his hands.

"No no no... I could not." He touched a hand to his breast. Hands that had been in my flesh. "We are with royalty. It is my honor."

He even bowed, and I felt tears in my eyes. My breathing was heavy. "R-royalty?"

His eyes regarded me with fondness. "I have been to Japan enough times to recognize your diction. And to know a Shimada dragon when I see one."

My chest tightened. My mouth turned to ash. "I am Shimada no more."

"You do not stop being what you are," he said gently. "You just find different ways of doing it."

As I blinked at him, I realized... "I do not know your name."

His eyes twinkled. "No, you do not." He leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea. "Call me Han."

"Ha ha..." My eyes sparkled, tears still lingering there. "I am Hanzo."

"Hanzo?" And his eyes widened. "Shimada _Hanzo_. Oh, my. Royalty indeed. Mei!"

[Yes?]

"Fetch the rice wine for our guest!" He regarded me in wonder. "It takes a lot for a prince like you to leave his throne. What on earth are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

I trailed my fingers over the clay. It was a little chipped, but the color still shone from care. "Disgrace." I looked to the whiskey. "I fought long and hard to keep that throne. And in the end, it cost me too much." My face twisted. "And I still lost it."

"Mm. As you say... With ancestors like yours." I looked up at him, and he sipped his tea. "I imagine they are not terribly helpful people."

I smiled and shook my head. "I feel like they enjoy watching me squirm."

He nodded. The girl came back with a bottle, and he cheered. "Aha! This is... Well. Not the best year, but we get what we get."

I laughed. "I will be happy for not-whiskey."

"Aye... I imagine you miss your sake something fierce."

"I dream about it every day," I admitted. We chuckled. I remembered days that a bottle or three was nothing. Fine vintages that were gifted to us by bowing visitors. We always had wine. Now...

He is right. It is not the best year, but I sip it like it is diamonds...

"Hmmmmm... That is wonderful."

"Should we warm it up for you?" he offered.

I chuckled. "I would have to give it back first," I teased, a smirk on my lips.

"Ha ha..." He raised his tiny cup to mine. "Kanpai, Shimada-sama."

My heart twisted, and I toasted him. "Kanpai, Han-san." The tears threatened again, and I sipped, relishing the sour taste of home...

" _Ai-ya_... You will bring an old man to tears."

He giggled. "Old man? What are you? 33?"

"38," I answered.

"Bah! You got another couple decades to catch up with _me_ ," he said, thumbing to his chest.

"Respect to the elders," I apologized, a cheeky twist of my head, and he grinned. He refilled our cups, and I marveled at the outrageous odds of finding a man like this out in the middle of nowhere.

"...I wonder," I said softly.

"Hmmm?"

"I..." I bit my lip. "I wonder if you could help me."

He looked about. "Have I not?"

I smiled. I liked his sense of humor. "You have." I shook my head. "More than I could have hoped for." I sipped my sake, cherishing it. "To not die is a pleasure..."

"Always."

"To have actual food and not the tripe they serve at the saloons, and tea on top of it is to feast like a king..."

"Oh, stop... You make me blush."

"To taste sake again..." I added, in a reverent hush, looking down at it, both hands cradling the cup. I even took a moment to sip, humming happily. "To taste home. And to hear my native tongue again." I gingerly touched my breast. "It does my heart good. You are a blessing."

"Remember that in your prayers," he said, finishing his cup. He did not take praise well. I liked that about him. He poured us both more, and I felt a happiness in my belly.

"...I confess I am on a quest. An old ally, from... Back when I didn't know I would need one." My face fell sad. I sipped. He waited for me, ever patient. A magnificent host. I looked down at my cup. "I wonder if you know of a man named... Jesse McCree."

I glanced up at him, bracing myself for the 'no' I had heard so many times. He regarded me, fingers stroking his chin.

"Jesse McCree..." he pondered it. "I know a Jesse _James_... He is in retirement last I heard." He frowned. "I think there is a McCree in Silver City, out in New Mexico." He shook his head. "New Sheriff. If anything, that kind of man could help you find him, if he is not who you are looking for."

I felt my heart race. "Silver City?" I echoed.

He nodded. "It is East of Tucson. Not quite Alberqueque."

My eyes worked, even though I had no idea where that was... Well. A rough idea. But not a good idea. I nodded. "Silver City."

And then he surprised me -- his hand moved mine, tilting the cup up. "Drink, friend. Drink."

I gave him a shy smile, and obliged him, washing my throat in the familiar taste. Then he topped me off again and screwed on the bottle. He set it next to my whiskey.

"You will take that with you," he added, in a tone that suggested it was not a suggestion.

I chuckled. "You are far too kind."

"Nonsense! I get to die knowing I saved a prince's life. That is a treasure I did not anticipate to ever receive. To be blessed with enough wealth to give him proper tribute is something that will help me rest peacefully in my grave."

I looked down at my sake. "I do not know if I am still a prince without my kingdom."

"Even the ronin is still a samurai," he answered. I met his eyes... and they were sad. "There is nothing worse than a man with skills and heart, but no purpose to his life. It eats you up inside."

I swallowed... and I nodded. I sipped the sake, considering his words.

"I will have a bed made for you," he added. "In the morning, we go to market. Get you all fixed up and back on the road." And he smirked. "And maybe a map for you."

I shook my head. "Han-san... You are very cheeky."

He grinned. "I have been told. Mei!"

I finished my sake, and then the tea. It rested in my belly, hot and wonderful, and if no one was around to see, I stole the last steam bun... Relishing _real_   food. He did not seem surprised to see it gone as he collected the plates, and I nestled the bottles in my bag, holding the sake like it was a cherished prize. The cot was simple, but it was not dirt and ground. I took off my boots, ginger and careful, and with a good amount of whispered cursing, peeled off my shirts as well. Mei took them off to wash, and I thanked her. She was kinder to me now, and offered me a shy -- if still wary -- smile, her eyes dancing over my tattoo. Han took full advantage of the chance to see the entire thing and praised it with reverence. His fingers danced over the shades of gold, but he did not touch.

"So few see the Shimada dragons," he said quietly. "And fewer are those still who see them and live to tell the tale."

I grinned. "I think the dragon likes you right now," I teased. "You gave him tea and sake. And pulled a bullet out. That is endearing."

He clapped his hands, beaming, and bowed to me. I bowed my head back.

"You are a treasure, Shimada-sama," he said. "You bring my home great honor."

...I waited until they were gone, the house dark, and I curled into the quilt they had provided me. Incense and jasmine and fivespice... Mingled with tobacco and the tang of soy sauce. This house reeked of Asia, and it broke my heart to bask in things I didn't realize I missed so much. I took a shuddering breath, careful to sit on my good side and let the silent tears fall. Gratitude. Pain. Heartbreak. Joy. Hope. So many things warring in my heart, and foremost, the image of that smiling cowboy.

_"If I had the time..."_

He came to me easy these days. With no one else for company, his spectre had become my constant companion.

_"Well, look at you, Han," he teased. "Sake, steam bun, green tea... I know you really missed green tea."_

_"You never know what you miss until it's gone," I agreed. We were riding along, his horse identical to mine. I admired the way his hips moved with the cadence of the horse, like life was a song he was always dancing to, in perfect rhythm._

_"Not the best sake... But sake is still sake," he said._

_I smirked. "You don't even like sake."_

_"Yeah, and you don' like whiskey. What's wrong with you?"_

_We smiled at each other, a familiar argument. Something I had decided upon having to trade my homebrew for the native drink._

I took a shuddering breath. _Silver City_. Finally. A lead. If it was the throbbing pain in need of rest, the comforts of home, the sake and warm food in my belly, or the calming in my soul from hope, it took little for me to fall asleep.


	3. Sheriff McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anzo stumbles into Silver City, NM, not sure if he's going to find the McCree he wants... Needs. //We start to see familiar faces...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Significantly less racism, but still there. Some familiar faces showing up! And drunk!Hanzo. Because that's always fun.
> 
> The "ai-ya" exclamation means absolutely nothing. I stole it from Jackie Chan Adventures, because I'm 90s trash.
> 
> ALSO dreamscape!McCree is not beholden to your anachronism rules. He can sing whatever he god damn pleases.

In the morning we had rice. And eggs. And tea. Oh, I would never have thought such things would bring me such joy, but they did. I felt like I was _five_  again. Mei-chan had put my shirt into a cold bath before bed, and it hung to dry now. They gave me clean water to bathe, and I balked at my own filth as Han-san insisted he made sure they had everything cleaned for me. All the dust and dirt I had become accustomed to, wiped away. Just watching where the edge of the water cleaned my hands from my dusty forearms was disgusting. I thought of the bathhouses of home and wished for the steam and spices and oils. But he did offer me an oil for my hair ("Keep in moisture, that heat will bake anything") and I took care in combing it through, appreciating the smell of jasmine and clove. I tied my hair in ribbon, wearing clean clothes for the first time in... well, longer than I cared to think about.

He offered me a pipe, and I took it with gratitude.

"We should go to market," he said. "What do you have need of?"

I shrugged. "Rations. Maybe that map..."

He laughed. "Yes, the map will be helpful." He puffed on the pipe. "Would you like some tobacco to take with you?"

I gave him a shy smile. "You have given me so much already..."

"Bah!" He waved me away. "These simpletons, they see you yellow, they assume. And when they are wrong, they take offense. As if you were lying, and they were not the fools. Others, they cling to old prejudices. Me? I am not this way. I know who you are. You are an honorable man."

I rested his pipe in my lap. "I would not say that."

"And in denying it, you prove your honor." He spoke gently. I looked at him, feeling very much like there was a lesson here I should be learning. "Your humility speaks volumes. A man of your stature could take what he wanted. Slaughter thousands. Be heartless and demanding. Yet you travel in anonymity. Alone. If you are dishonored by your family, I am sure it is them who are dishonoring you." He tapped his pipe. "And I can say that because I am not in Japan."

I smiled. "It would be dishonorable to agree with you."

"Ha ha! Even now, you are kind and gracious to those who have done you wrong." He bowed, gesturing to me with his pipe. "And in that way, you have honor."

I leaned back, smoking as well... "I suppose you have a point."

"Of course I do," he teased. "I'm an old man. We know things."

We both chuckled. He puffed, contented. He had so little himself, and yet he wanted to give more to me, who had even less. Because he knew who I was, and had been taught to respect his nobility, even if it was a nobleman of a different country than his.

"Although... If you may indulge me, Shimada-sama. I do have a question."

"Anything, Han-san," I answered, sincere.

"This man you seek... McCree." He tilted his head. "You called him an ally. From before..."

"...I needed one." I nodded, yes.

"This intrigues me," he confessed. "All night, I wonder what you mean by that. If it is too much, you do not have to say," he added, waving a hand, "But..."

I nodded. "It is an intriguing thing to say," I admitted. My smile turned fond. "I was in this country before. Not of my own volition, mind. Just as alone... Being the son of the Master of Shimada has its downsides."

He snorted. "I imagine it might."

"Well... Some outlaws thought it might be an enterprising venture to take young Shimada to the Wild West. Show him the sights..."

"Hnn," he agreed. "Not the best idea."

"They quickly learned the error of their ways," I agreed. And... I trailed off, chewing my lip.

_"Prettier 'n a picture..."_

_It caught me by surprise to see he meant... me._

"...One of them. He was not so foolish. Not to say that he helped me escape, because I could have done so at any time. It is just... Not _wise_  to be wandering around in the desert by yourself when you aren't prepared and don't know what you're doing."

"Ha ha. Even knowing what you're doing and being prepared, it's a stupid idea," he agreed, a chide there.

I took that with a nod. I earned it. "...So I waited. Knowing my... men. Would come after me. But in the meantime... He gave me interesting conversation..."

_His face was flushed above me... "Are all dragons as wonderful as you?"_

I smirked, knowing that was a sweet lie. "Well." I puffed on the pipe, knowing the old man was watching me. "He was kind to me." I looked up to him. My smile turned sad. "We massacred... All of them. But for his kindness, he was spared." I sighed. "Not that I told anyone, mind. I even cut him. Made it look convincing."

His eyes narrowed, trying to puzzle out the words I wasn't saying, lips pursed on his pipe.

I shrugged. "It's stupid, yes. But I have nowhere..." My throat closed up. "I have nowhere to go," I whispered. "No one to go to. Maybe I am chasing a ghost because... I have... nothing else to chase."

I could taste the salt in my mouth, and I closed my eyes, begging my mind to not linger on the heartbreak and fear in his eyes...

_"Oniisan..."_

"I have paid too much, and still lost everything."

There was a long moment where there was nothing but the hiss of smoke... The pop of his lips.

"I am sorry I asked," he said, gentle.

I shook my head, smiling. "It is not a problem." I blinked, feeling my eyes red and raw, but nothing fell. Not this time. I took a shuddering breath. "It is the things I am running away from that worry me. Not the ghost I hunt." I slipped the pipe in my lips, pulling on the smoke... feeling the heat of it fill my lungs, and I blew out the stream. It was not the best tobacco I'd ever had, but it certainly did the trick.

We went to market together. The old man referred to me as his son, boasting that I was a young gentleman, well-learned, educated... His daughter had married well. He chattered and sweet-talked the man behind the counter, buying his own groceries along with mine. Rice, tea, tobacco. Even made sure I had a fresh pot and a cup that he told me little Mei made and sold here for a little extra. I drew the line at the horse, insisting I would purchase my own steed, and instead found a mule for a little cheaper. By the time we came back, my clothes were laundered and wrapped in tight little packages, wrapped in brown paper, and I laughed.

"It is the business!" Han teased. And he did charge me for the laundry, with a wink. I happily paid the pittance, and tucked something else in a teapot when no one was looking.

We had fried noodles for lunch, and I bid them a fond farewell and headed out with the beginnings of evening.

"You be careful out there, Shimada-sama," he said, his hands on mine. He had clasped a gold coin there, a token for good luck.

"Thank you, Han-san. For everything." We bowed to each other, and we both giggled as he insisted on going lower than me.

"You will break an old man's back with your stubbornness, child," he complained, but we were both grinning when we rose.

A hug as well. "I will not forget this kindness."

"Mm. Maybe I'll send my ancestors to rough up yours a bit, and give you a break."

"Aha! That might be appreciated, but they may not win."

He squeezed my shoulder. "It has been an honor. Safe travels, young man."

" _Xie xie_ ," I said, nodding again.

"Mmhmm."

He watched me make off east, and Mei watched from the doorway as well. By the time the skies were dark blue and the city behind me was a twinkle on the horizon like the stars above, my cowboy joined me.

_"Real nice folk," he said, his horse trotting along._

_"They were good people," I agreed, a soft smile on my lips._

_"And hey. Got a good haul."_

_I shrugged. "Should last us a while."_

_"So... Silver City, huh?"_

_I felt my heart race. "Apparently."_

_He puffed up his chest. "Can you imagine me as a Sheriff? I bet you I'm all grizzled and grumpy..." I laughed. "Prolly got a long beard and a longer hat... Beer gut."_

_"Whiskey belly," I agreed. "Mmm. And that damn swagger of yours." I eye him sideways. "Bet the ladies go nuts for you."_

_"Well, who wouldn't?" he teased. As I had grown, so had he. I couldn't decide if he was burly or lean, and had gone for something in between. That kind of wild, hungry look in his eye that the coyote had worn when I'd known him. Scrappy. Hair a mane. Sometimes it was as long as mine, other times he trimmed it tight to impress me. But those eyes..._

_Oh, those chocolate eyes always sparkled with warmth and affection._

_I imagined him wearing a nicer shirt. His lovingly polished boots, spurs at the end. A black vest, pocket watch tucked in with a gold chain attached to a button. His shirt teased open to that furry mess of hair, and a silver Sheriff's badge sparked from one breast._

_"Mmmm..." I purred. "Why are you so handsome?"_

_"Because I'm a figment of your imagination." He winked. "What's the point of imagining an ugly one?"_

_I chuckled. "You make a fair point."_

_We rode on a moment, and he sighed... Contented._

"On the road again... _" he sang, a soft croon, his mouth making love to the words._ "Just can't wait to get on the road again..."

_I laughed. "You sing too much."_

_"You love it," he teased back, smiling at me._

I hummed, assuring myself not for the first time that, yes. He had the voice of a siren. He had to. So much of him was music by himself. His voice, his walk, the way he moved... Like he was dancing to his own private band. There was no way he wasn't the type to burst out into song, using the hoofbeats to mark the beat. It had to be his way.

Silver City, NM ended up being a week and a half trip by foot. I cut it in half using the mule, and I know I was grumpy and stinky by the time I finally waltzed into the right town. It was dusk, the day ending. My sake was gone, my whiskey was gone, and I was on my last bit of tea. I was tired... I wanted nothing more than a place to sleep, maybe a hot meal that wasn't fire roasted rattlesnake or lizard. I pulled the mule to a stand and lowered myself, wavering on my feet.

" _Ai-ya_..." I moaned, bending over... Saddle sores. My legs ached... Still, with a sigh, I searched my bags for things of value I did not trust to leave out here... The token the Chinaman had given me was tucked in a pocket, the empty bottles waiting for more water. My blades were stashed on my person, more so now in town. I put my map on the beast, smiling at the thought that I didn't need it anymore. Anything else... Well. I needed it, but it wasn't valuable.

I didn't even own a gun. I didn't need one.

I pat the beast's rump. [Be good, you], I told her. [I will be back. Don't die, okay?]

She did not listen. She was enjoying the trough of water I had placed before her.

[Don't drink too fast, you'll drown], I added, a tired smile on my lips.

I stumbled into the saloon. This one... was actually not bad. The paint was faded in color, but whoever was washing up did a good job keeping it mostly decent. There were a few fellows in the corner playing poker, a Negro dealing the cards, a nice dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a handsome black vest. He was lively but respectful. I noted the person of color with relief. That was a good sign. For me.

I slid up to the bar and was greeted by a slight looking woman, and it took me a moment to realize she was one, given her simple blouse and vest instead of a corset.

"Cheers, love," she greeted, giving me a stained, mostly white cloth napkin. "Just pop in?"

"Hai," I said, nodding, with tired eyes. "Very long walk."

She laughed, a kind smile that danced in her eyes. "What'll it be?"

"Do you have sake?"

She pondered a moment, giving me a flat smile. "Can't say I do."

I shook my head. "Whiskey, please. Whole bottle." I put down the dollar, and her eyes shot up.

"Well, alright then!" She fetched a bottle, a dusty, but nice crystal glass propped before me. She cracked the top and served me a couple fingers, setting it there. "Anything to eat?"

"I would love something to eat," I answered, my voice raspy and raw from disuse. _What a lovely place_. "What do you have?"

"Well... Tonight is a roast. Potatoes, onions, beef. Or I have bread and cheese. Beef stock noodle soup."

My eyes widened. That was... an impressive selection. "Umm... Noodle soup, please."

She winked, giving me a finger gun. "Wotcher."

...I liked this place.

I turned in my seat, sipping my whiskey, and watched the poker game.

"Alright, fellas..." He flipped a card. One of them cheered, the other two groaned. "Looks like your lucky night, Rhys."

"It's _always_  my lucky night," the big man beside him boomed. He had a big voice, the kind that boasted. His arms were like trees, solid and sturdy. His shirt was covered in soot and dirt, but his dirty face was beaming.

"You want another round, guys?" the dealer asked, bright teeth shining. The remaining pair was another big guy -- he wore a black kerchief over his mouth -- and a tinier man, scrappy and scrawny, but loooong. I wondered how tall he would stand if he wasn't curled in on himself like that.

"What you think, Mack?"

The big guy shrugged with a grunt.

"Yeaaah... We're in."

Bets were put on the table, and the dealer shuffled up another round.

"Game's a $1 buy in..."

I turned back to the barmaid, who smirked at me as she wiped out a glass.

"Oh... High stakes?"

She shrugged. This close to the silver mine, everyone has money to burn." She looked over. "My boy over there can spin cards like no one I know. Good chap."

I nodded, watching her. I finished my drink. "I wonder... I hear there is a Sheriff in town. Man by the name of McCree." My fingers tapped on the glass. "Is he still around?"

Her cheery smile vanished, her eyes wary. "What you want with McCree?"

The change concerned me. I shrugged. "I'm... an old friend."

Her jaw tightened. "Listen. We want no trouble here. McCree is a good man. Straight and true. If you expectin' favors, you might want to just keep on goin'," he warned. "Or you'll end up with a noose 'round yer neck."

I scowled. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she growled. "You gonna cause trouble, or eat in peace?"

I did not like her tone and damn it, I was not in the mood for a slip of a girl to threaten _me_.

"I _want_  to eat in peace!" I roared, standing. "Just once! Just once I want to eat in peace! I want a drink of water that doesn't taste like dirt! I want a hot meal that I didn't have to kill myself! I want to walk into a town and once, just once! Be treated like a person and not a dog!"

I slammed a fist on the bar, but the barmaid leveled me with a glare.

"Well, you act like that, I'm not surprised," she growled.

I snarled. "You don't know a thing about me."

"'Old friend of McCree's'?" she echoed. "He don't have very many _good_  friends."

"Maybe it's not the right man," I barked back. "I don't even know if he is still alive, or what he does! It has been years! I could have the wrong McCree altogether!"

"Gettin' real tired of hearin' my name shouted from across the street."

My blood turned to ice, and I froze. The barmaid's anger melted into something smug, and she wiggled her eyebrows at me.

"Stranger, you're new here. So I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. But that's rubbed me wrong in the past, so don't think I won't keep an eye on you as well."

My heart was racing, and I swallowed hard, sure I was pale as a sheet. Almost trembling, I turned.

McCree. Sheriff McCree.

He was big. Tall and broad, a gun at each hip, and hands besides. They were covered in auburn hair, his skin red as the desert sunrise, and those eyes...

My stomach flipped. Chocolate brown eyes, cold and angry, his mouth a thin line.

He moved forward, that sway to his hips, the dance to his spurs, and it was just like I remembered, surreal and yet more real than anything in the whole damn world. He approached the bar as if to order a drink, leaning his elbows on the polished wood, propping one boot -- one dust caked black boot, with glistening spurs behind -- on the railing beneath. His eyes looked at me, his chin no longer clean shaven, but covered with a patchy beard, trimmed just past his chin, but his hair... His hair danced over his shoulders. The shirt was the brown of cafe au lait, the vest black with pinstripes. There was no pocketwatch.

I stared. I had forgotten how _red_  he was. I also hadn't pegged the cigarillo sticking out between his lips.

He worked his jaw, chewing on it, the smoke spicy and rough. "You got yerself a problem, partner?"

I blinked, and looked back at my glass. I shook my head. I did not trust myself to speak.

"He causin' you trouble, Lena?"

I looked up at her, and she was regarding me with pursed lips. "He said he's an old friend. Knowin' you... I assume the worse."

He chuckled, and I shivered. Oh, I had forgotten... How warm his voice was. I looked at him through heavily lidded eyes, watching his throat move under a curtain of stubble.

"To be fair, I don't have a lot of _good_  old friends," he said, and then he looked to me, and I felt something cold slither down my spine. "Definitely don't got a lot of yella friends, neither."

I bit my lip, wanting to blurt out everything, but suddenly, my mind was empty.

_He's fucking beautiful._

He regarded me, eyes narrowed, and I almost laughed, or sobbed.

_Sniff sniff. What are you?_

Instead, I choked on my own throat. Lena returned with my soup, and did me the tight-lipped courtesy of another shot. I thanked her -- in Japanese, I was so absent-minded -- and took it, tossing it back with a groan.

I heard the idle tapping of fingers. I shut my eyes as a memory came back.

_He listened, his fingers tapping on the flask, his eyes uncertain..._

I sighed. _I found him_. I found him, and he doesn't know me. Or remember me.

I was carrying this torch alone.

He sighed, and I slid my eye open to watch him from the corner as he leaned up on his feet, spurs dancing. He turned, his arms wide at his sides, thumbs tucked in belt loops, and he moved to the poker table.

"How 'bout it, boss?" the dealer offered, another winning smile. "You want a round?"

"So you can steal my money? Hell no." He looked at the big man. "How's the mine today, Rhys?"

"Full of silver!" he boomed, grinning. "Jamie made the boom-boom, me and Mack and the rest got to swingin' -- beautiful day."

He snorted. "You really oughta bathe."

"But I smell like victory!"

"Mm-hmm..."

I tore away my eyes, feeling myself panicking. _That was him_. I thought of my companion, a loose sketch of mismatched parts, and slid this fellow alongside. He was burly, big and built, with arms that looked like he could crush you in a bear hug -- oh god -- and skin like a campfire, so big he could wrap you in them and carry you away...

_My companion tilted his hat, eyes appraising, surprised. "Shit, I got beefy."_

_"There is still a slight beer gut," I said, dazed._

_"But_ damn _. I look like a beast." He seemed concerned, and looked to me sideways. "You alright there, Han?"_

[Of course not], I whispered to myself as I downed another drink.

"You might wanna add some stew to that," the barmaid called to me, concerned. I sighed, pouring myself another drink, but obliged the good sense, tucking into the stew.

 _Potatoes_. They were soft and moist and I swallowed them without hardly tasting them. Carrots and onions and peas, too. Even a chunk of meat here and there, the greasy oil of good fat lining the surface. I almost inhaled it, and nearly choked.

"Are you sure y'all gon' be alright?"

I curled in on myself, unspeakably terrified for no good reason. His voice was low, gentle, soft and concerned, warm and velvet and smoke, and it made me want to cry. I looked to my right, and he had one hand on the chair two down from me, and an elbow on the counter. Lena went to him, and she leaned forward.

"Whoever he is, he does seem to know you," she whispered.

"Yeah, I reckon," he agreed. He didn't look at me directly, but I knew he was using the bar's mirror. _Clever man_.

"I'll keep an eye on him." A giggle. "Honest, must be an _old_   friend, Jess. Just seein' you seems to put him in a state of shock."

"Aw, don't tease an old man like that."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then a gentle pat after it with her hand, and my heart twisted.

I watched him in the mirror, and our eyes met. _Sniff, sniff._  But he broke the contact, gave Lena a hat tip, and the poker players a wave. "Evenin', fellas."

"Night, McCree!"

"Night, Sheriff!"

...And just like that he was gone.

I let out a heavy breath, like I had four lungs to squeeze the air out of. I crammed the heels of my hands into my eyes and begged them not to leak, not to burn. _Keep your wits, Hanzo_ , I told myself. My specter tried to squeeze my shoulders, but his power seemed to be gone now, his eyes following the far-too-real and solid alternative that was the truth.

I heard a drink poured, and then a shot dropped near me. It took me a moment to get the courage to look.

A tiny glass. With what looked like water in it. Pure, clean water. I stared at it. I hadn't seen anything so clear in...

"Moonshine," she offered, and when I looked up, her lips were quirked in a smirk. "Little more kick. On the house."

...I did not question her. I tossed it back. And coughed. I cursed in Japanese, making a face, and she giggled.

"Yeah... You looked like you could use it." Her eyes watched me, concerned. I couldn't help but feel she was up to something... But I couldn't tell what.

I finished my meal. Another drink or two of whiskey... The players left, and it was just me and the dealer and the barmaid.

"Hey, stranger!" the dealer called, making the title sound almost appealing. "You wanna play a game?"

"Ha," I said, turning back to him. [Do you do Mahjong?] I asked.

"Mahjong?" He laughed. "I might..."

"Heheh..." I stood, swaying on my feet. "Ooh." I looked at her. [I may be drunk.]

She just gave me a fond smile. "You want, I can bring it over for you," she offered.

I gave her a thumbs-up. "A-OK!"

I made my way to the table, smiling, and set myself down. To my delight, he _did_  have mahjong tiles.

[Very nice!] I said. [What's the buy-in?]

He chuckled. "Buy-in is $1. Unless... you have something else?"

I reached in my pocket... and pulled out the token. I laughed. [For good luck.] I set it down next to my glass and searched my pockets. I hummed, finding my wallet, and I pulled out the dollar, setting it down. The dealer looked to the barmaid, who brought me my bottle.

"Take it easy, mate," she warned. "You probably all dried up from the desert."

[I'm fine], I said, waving a hand at her. [Women worry too much.]

The Negro dealt, smiling. It had been a while since I played Mahjong, but some things don't change. I went three rounds and had actually made money when a couple more customers slipped in. I drank and I played. When someone else joined, I welcomed them with a laugh, and they looked at me oddly. Dealer explained the game, and we played.

Five more rounds, and I was starting to lose my winnings...

"Looks like your luck's ran out, sir," the dealer teased. "You want to try it again?"

"Pah!" I put a dollar in. [Give it to me.]

"Alright..."

Two more rounds, and I won back what I lost.

"Sir, I think you are hustlin' me," he said, eyeing me.

[Maybe I am], I teased, giggling over my whiskey bottle, waving a finger at him. [You would never know.]

The guy next to me chuckled. "Does he even speak English?"

"He was speaking English earlier," the dealer replied. "Lots of it. That was a bottle of whiskey ago."

[What are you talking about?] I slurred, and I took a swig of whiskey...

...Where did my whiskey go?

[Mana! Where did it go?] I complained.

The dealer laughed. "Lena... I think he's done."

I turned to her, [Lena-chan, it's all gone.] I waved my empty bottle with pathetic eyes.

She cooed. "Oh my god, you're precious..." She made me a drink, and brought it over... it was water. Honest to god water. ...Or was it?

[Is this water or that other stuff you gave me earlier?] I accused.

"It's _water_ ," she assured me. She put her hands on her hips. "Do you have a room for the night?"

[You offering?] I asked, smirking.

She grumped. She looked at the dealer. "Lou, I don't understand a thing he's saying."

"Me neither," he said, laughing. "Might send someone for McCree."

[No no, don't do that], I told him, and I started to stand, turning to her to beg. I stumbled over the chair. [Please, I don't want him to see me like this...]

"Shh... It's okay. He'll take care of you." She turned to another patron. "Johnny, can you go get the Sheriff, please?"

[No no no, not the Sheriff], I groaned, turning to follow him, and it made me dizzy. I put a hand to my head. Oh, this was all wrong... I was swaying... The world was spinning...

"Lena, he's gonna DROP."

Last thing I remember, I heard her curse, and everything went black.


	4. Strange Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hanzo explores the town a bit more and meets some of its... varied and interesting denizens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm wrong with the whole North/South Mandarin/Cantonese thing, it's ignorance. I am freeballing over here. Don't shoot me. AND there will be anachronisms here and there. When you spot them, you better have a historically accurate replacement on hand to fix it with or I'm just going to glare at you. Yes, licorice is my attempt at jelly beans in the West, because I don't know that they were a thing back then. I have my loyalties, and a bunch of them are stamped with Matthew Mercer's beautiful face.

The next morning, I woke up in handcuffs.

[What the fuck is this?] I cursed.

Apparently my rattling awoke something. My dragons squirmed under my skin and I grimaced, touching a hand to my head. _God, it hurt so much..._

"Well. Seems yer awake."

I lowered my hand, looking up at him. My Jesse. His eyes watched me, _Snake_ , and I spotted a stripe of red on one cheek.

I barely remembered a hand touching me in the dark, and I struck out -- a yelp, a struggle I was too drunk and tired for, and a blow to the head. I touched the bump on my skull, bile at the back of my throat.

"...Again," he said, making it sound like a tired sing-song.

[I am sorry], I whispered.

I looked up at him, and he had a raised brow. He did not understand.

"How many knives do you _usually_  carry on your person?" he asked. "I found... three. One of them was almost in my _thigh_."

I belched quietly, liquor and something else terribly unpleasant burning at the back of my throat. _Oh god, I struck him_. But I didn't answer.

He sighed, a growling noise through flared nostrils. _Snake damn near bit me._  "You want coffee or somethin'? Provided you promise not to swing at me again?"

I didn't trust myself to open my mouth, pressing a fist to my lips. _I'm going to be sick..._

"Coffee," he said again, sticking out a thumb. "Yes or no?" For 'no', he turned it down.

I did not like the tone of his voice. An antagonistic edginess that was fair for someone who had been sliced by his charge... but I had never known him truly mad. He had always forgiven so quickly in my dreams. I knew well enough that was an unrealistic expectation. I offered a thumbs up. [Yes.]

He shook his head. "I'm gettin' you a damn translator." He had a plank of wood he was using for some kind of paperwork, and he dropped it to the table. I groaned at the noise, and he opened the door with a whine, and it swang shut.

I could a hear a bell ringing on the other side. It clanged around in my skull.

xxx

True to his word, the Sheriff returned with coffee -- a carafe of it. He poured himself a mug and sipped it. I did not trust myself to move, my head hurt too much, so I only watched him drink instead.

His throat bobbed... I don't know why that fascinated me so. His attention, however, was on the door. Finally, he gave a wry smile.

"Alright, Jack," the Sheriff said. "Brought you a friend."

The door opened with another ringing of bells, and in stepped a Chinaman, a Mandarin collar at his throat, a faded silver silk coat down to his thighs. The pants were denim, though, and good boots. He carried a straw hat, an American style, and he wore a kind smile, even if his eyes were wary.

"[Good morning,]" he greeted. He was Cantonese.

I sat in my corner, arms crossed, too tired and hungover to be anything near pleasant. I was taught to stay silent in such situations.

"Hopin' maybe we can get some communications goin'," added the Sheriff. He sipped his own coffee, and I swallowed, my throat parched, as I watched him drink.

"[Are you from North or South?]" the chinaman asked. And then he asked again in Mandarin.

I blinked at him, saying nothing. I really hated everyone assuming I was Chinese.

His smile faltered, and he looked to the Sheriff. The Sheriff shrugged.

"He ain't real talkative," he explained. And then he sipped with a sigh.

I watched him, my lips twitching into a sneer, longing for a drink...

"Perhaps... he needs a drink," the stranger suggested.

My eyes darted to him, and I realized he'd been watching me. My eyes narrowed in threat, but when I looked back at the Sheriff, he was watching me, too.

I hated being on display like this. Like some kind of zoo animal.

The Sheriff gave a quiet grunt (...was my Jesse not a morning person?) and slipped into the next room. He returned with another mug and poured a cup of 'black gold', as it was called by people who actually liked the stuff for reasons I didn't understand.

Still. A drink was a drink. The potion had its benefits.

He approached the bars with the mug, his fingers presenting it like a gift, handle moved towards me. _Always so considerate and gentle_. At least that hadn't changed.

Moving carefully, guarding my steps, I moved to the edge of the cage and retrieved the coffee. It was black and had a touch of oil to the surface of it, but I sipped it. It was bitter, and unpleasant (I hate coffee) but it felt good on my throat. I turned, so they could not stare at me as I drank. And I did. I drank. I downed the whole thing. I almost choked on it, and it burned, but I caught myself before I gave away the sound. I wiped my lips on the sleeve before I turned back, and slipped it back through the bars. I returned to my seat, feeling a little better, but crossed my arms still.

So exposed... The Sheriff set it on the table, saying nothing more.

Chan stepped closer to the bars, but not too close. "[What is your name?]" he tried again.

Before he could repeat it in Mandarin, I cut him off. "[I am not Chinese.]"

He blinked. His mind replayed the words, and he frowned. He turned to the Sheriff. "He says... Well, I think he said, 'I am not Chinese'."

The Sheriff raised a brow. "You _think?"_ he echoed.

He nodded. "I think he's Japanese."

Both of their eyes turned on me. I flit between them, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up...

"...Japanese," the Sheriff muttered, as if the word were a dark curse. And then he moved, suddenly, with purpose and fire in his eyes. It startled me. "Get on up here," he growled, standing at the far end of the cell, pulling keys from his belt.

I watched him, wary.

"I SAID GET OVER HERE!" he barked. Even Chan jumped in surprise.

I glared at him, snarling.

He pulled out his gun and pointed it at me, pulling back the hammer with a click. Chan backed away from him with a curse in Cantonese. "Don't make me ask you again, or I swear to God, I _will_  shoot you."

My chest tensed. I believed him. I uncrossed my arms, rising to him. I assumed the position, resting the backs of my wrists on the iron bars, and he unlashed one, brought the chain to the front, and clapped it back on me. He tightened it, not being too careful about comfort, just to keep me tight, and my teeth clenched at the unnecessary pain. He released the gun, putting it back in his holster, and his fingers pulled at my sleeve--

My heart raced as I realized what he was about, and I pulled away, cursing him, but the shackles held me to him, and he dragged the black cloth away until he could see the edges of my dragon.

" _Sumbitch_."

His eyes met mine, a fury and loathing in them, dark and haunting. His lip curled in a snarl, and I let out a protest as he reached both hands, I thought for my throat, but instead, he ripped at my shirt, the buttons protesting, and one bounced on the floor as he pried it open down to my vest.

"Get your hands off me!" I roared, in English, but it did not stop him. His hands tugged at my shirt, pulling it away from my shoulder until he could see where the tattoo began...

He growled, shoving at me, and took two, and then five long steps back.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he growled.

Chan was practically shaking in his boots as he looked at the Sheriff. "I... I think he speaks English."

"Yeah, he does," the Sheriff agreed, voice heavy with rage. He spit to one side.

I turned away... Those eyes were too cruel for me. I tugged at my bindings, but they were too tight, and I could go nowhere. I tried to shrug my shirt back on, but the fabric just flopped uselessly, helping nothing.

From the corner of my eye, I watched the Sheriff pull out a billfold and slide something to the Chinaman, who took it with a bow. He gave me one last, worried glance, and slipped out, the door shutting behind him with a dancing of the bell.

"I know that tattoo," he growled. "That's a Shimada dragon. Who are you? Were you sent here to kill me?"

I glanced up at his eyes, but the accusation in them spoke enough that I looked away again.

"I asked you a damn question!"

I flinched. His rage was _terrifying_. "N-no," I said.

" _No?"_ he echoed. "There was two questions."

 _Were_ , my brain corrected. I told it to shut the fuck up. "No, I... am not here to kill you," I said, even as I tugged on the chains.

"And yer name?"

I twisted my face.

_"You may know me..." I teased. "Biblically, almost."_

_"Jesse-san! Remember me? It's Hanzo!"_

_"You've haunted my dreams, cowboy... Have I haunted yours?"_

_"Maybe this time I tie you up and have my way with you... See how well you do with a little role reversal."_

I licked my lips, knowing a million ways I would have rathered this conversation to go, and my instinct was to lie, to save it for later...

_"I came all this way to find you."_

...But if I lied now, I would hurt him later.

_"I promised you I wouldn't forget you... I picked wine. Ever had sake?"_

I looked up at him, with begging eyes. Sometimes it was best to say nothing.

It was painful, standing there, lying by omission. I watched his rage simmer... And then his anger turned to impatience, aggravation. Annoyance. And then it deflated into disapproval. Meanwhile, I flexed my fingers. I avoided his eye, I kept my own breathing calm, and held tight the part of me that wanted to blurt it all out like a fool...

I had no idea of knowing what his life was like right now. I could be a very inconvenient wrench in his plans far more likely than an answer to any prayers. My ancestors weren't that kind.

After a long moment, he sighed. He reached for his keys, picking through them. "Look. To be honest, the only reason you're in there is cos you were drunk as a skunk last night and you wouldn't speak a lick of English, so no one knew what to do with you. Only reason you were handcuffed is cos I offered you coffee this mornin' and you about knifed me."

I bit my lip. No apology would fix what I had done. He wore the gash on his cheek, a testament to my destructive nature.

How many people more would I hurt and destroy?

"As it is... Technically I have no charges against you. And I did kind of... wake you up. Can't fault a man for a reflex."

I twisted my face... _A reflex_. How could you just slide that under a rug? I had _attacked_  him.

"But... I can let you go. Provided you aren't here for mischief." His eyes watched me, as if he wanted me to interject something. "Are you gonna cause trouble?"

I shook my head, my fingers desperately clutching the bars.

"Alright now." He slid the key in each cuff, releasing them. I caressed my wrists and watched him turn to a new key, slide it in the door and gave it a twist. It protested my silence, but I stepped out regardless.

It was surreal, standing next to him. Not just because I was feeling small and vulnerable (all over again...), tired and hungover... And he was a mountain of a man, technically in power here, but also a careful, anxious coyote and... a Sheriff. Or because he had just unlocked me from a cell.

Rescuing me from a prison I wasn't truly trapped in. How the world repeats itself.

...It was just the fact that I was standing next to him. For real. At last. I had yearned for a joyous reunion, claws and lips and tongue and more, and instead my courage and wits failed me. Intimidated by the reality of him. Racked by doubt and the fact I was a stranger in a strange land where no one trusted me.

Even him. Maybe it's because my heart was broken by it all.

I found my eyes caught on his lips. "Thank you."

"Yer welcome," they said. His throat bobbed, and he cleared it, maybe nervous. I looked up to his eyes, and they were swimming with questions.

_Are you my dragon? Don't I know you? Your scent seems familiar..._

I turned away from the cell, and looked down to my shirt, buttoning it. The one I had lost was the third down, but I decided now was not the time to worry about it. I tugged my sleeve down, buttoning that too.

_I should tell him..._

His paw clung to the door, shutting it, and he leaned against it, watching me. _Sniff sniff..._  "You gon' be alright?"

I gave him a shy smile. "I hope so."

He leaned away from me, and he cleared his mouth again. Or maybe... he was coughing. I watched him reach into a pocket and pull out another thin cigar, and stick it between his lips.

I had forgotten he smoked.

"Do you mind if I...?"

I sniffed a laugh. "It is your shop, Sheriff, not mine," I answered.

He gave me a lopsided thing that I had never seen before, and I immediately added it to my collection. "Fair enough."

He reached for a nearby candle and lit it, pulling and puffing. It smelled wonderful. Or maybe just better than average, but wonderful because it was his.

He regarded me. _Sniff, sniff_. "Are you really who I think you are?"

I sighed. "That depends on who you think I am."

He pulled a drag and let it out, thumbs in his belt loops. Fingers tapping. "It's been about... Hell. Twenty years ago now?"

I tugged on my shirt tails, and then my vest. Something like presentable. Anything to not look into his eyes... I didn't know if I could lie to him.

_"It's me... Hanzo! Of course it is!"_

"That is a long time ago."

_"Stay down, anata... Live."_

"I was a shit punk kid at the time," he said gently. "Tied up with some bad people." His arms crossed, the smoke in his fingers. "Had a certain run-in with your brand of Yakuza at one point. Guess my boss leader decided would be a good idea to get into the kidnappin' people business. Kidnapped the wrong person."

_"For your kindness... I could spare you."_

"Sounds like a bad way to start a business," I said.

He nodded. "Sure was." He bit his lip, and I felt like his eyes were gauging me...

Had he imagined me growing up different like I had?

_What are you?_

"Met a dragon in the meantime," he said, so soft I could barely hear it. "Did me a kindness."

_"Are all dragons as wonderful as you?"_

_"I do not think so..."_

He puffed on the smoke, and his eye flit back to mine.

I swallowed hard. "Dragons are not common around here, I take it?"

His eyes glinted in mischief. "Sure ain't."

His tongue teased at the cigar as he slipped it into his mouth, pulling on it. Those chocolate eyes looked me up and down, and I felt my heart stop beating. He moved, an easy motion, punctuated only by bootsteps and spurs, his hips a liquid motion to an unheard tune.

"Ah, hell. Was worth a shot," he muttered, to himself. And then louder: "Stay outta trouble. Don't make me lock you up again."

_"Shoot," he grinned. "Don't threaten me with a good time..."_

I felt my breath catch in my throat, watching him... and made a final amendment to my fantasy.

The ass had gotten even better.

xxx

Even after I left the Sheriff's office, I felt like I couldn't breathe. My heart was in my throat, a solid weight that wasn't pumping blood like it should. Despite the heat of the desert sun, I felt a chill. Meanwhile, something else was pulsing in my ears, detached but persistent. My mule was still where I'd left her, and I greeted her with a wavering smile, blinking furiously.

[Hello again], I said, touching her nose. She brayed. [You shouldn't drink so much.]

She gave me an eye, telling me she didn't find it funny. I untied her and made my way down the street to the General Store. I tied her there and checked my bags. They were rifled, naturally, and I took an inventory of what they'd taken.

My rice was gone. My tea was still here. My empty bottles were here. My meat and bread were gone -- or what little I had left of it. The cup was still there -- I said nothing valuable, but it had value to me -- but my pot was gone. I cursed quietly, tapping my mule. [Not your fault], I assured her, as she watched me out of the corner of her eye.

I hadn't expected her to make the trip. I should probably name her if I intended to stay a while.

I stepped into the store, a hulk of a man with a stooped back and square spectacles smiled at me.

"Ah! Good day. How can I help you?"

"They robbed my mule," I complained, smiling. "They took my food. I need more."

He chuckled sympathetically. "I'm sorry for your troubles, sir. Hopefully, I can help," he added, gesturing around.

"I hope so too," I agreed. I meandered through the shop, getting beans and rice and jerky. Whiskey...

I debated the whiskey. I put it back.

"Passing through?" he asked, making conversation.

"Hnn." I shrugged. "I might stay. I am not sure yet."

"Oh? Well, if you're lookin' for work, I can help with that." He reached under the counter to pull up the bar that separated him from the rest of the shop. He directed me to a bulletin board. "Got lots of jobs here. Lena's lookin' for a piano player at the Point. Sheriff McCree always has bounties he needs huntin' and rewards that can be got. Whole lot more needs doin' if you can read and write. Else, there's always the silver mines."

"Hnn... Silver mines. I suppose that is why it is Silver City, yes?"

He laughed. "Exactly right." He smiled at me over his spectacles, his cheeks rosy and pleasant. He held out a hand. "Call me Winston."

"Okay," I said, taking it. "I shall."

He laughed. "Funny one."

I shrugged. "I've had a bad morning."

He nodded... And decided not to ask anymore. "Well, if any of this suits your fancy, I can point you in the right way, unless you want to explore for yourself." He stopped at the door, wiping his glasses, and put them back on. "I thought you said they stole your mule?"

"I said they robbed it..."

"Ahh. You could report it to Sheriff McCree," he suggested.

"It is only food," I said. "If they have need of it that much, they are welcome to it." _One kindness for another_. In another world, I would have chased them down and murdered them over rice. That seems so overhanded now. They meant no dishonor. They were merely hungry. I tested his selection of pots. "Do you order in?"

"Absolutely. Everything on display is for sale, but we can have anything shipped in you might need, just takes time."

"Hnn." I tapped at a copper pot, chewing over the price. "The Sheriff is helpful, then? I know that these days... That's not a given."

"Heheh... Yeah, Sheriff's a real swell fella. We're lucky to have him."

"Hnn. How long has he been sheriff here?" I wondered if I sounded too curious.

"McCree?" He frowned, hands on his hips. "Hmm. Couple years now, I think." He laughed. "I can only remember that much because he's a sucker for licorice. I sell a lot of it 'round Christmas time, everyone likes him happy as a clam."

I hummed. _He likes licorice?_  I tried to imagine my ghost companion eating licorice, and I chuckle at the silly notion.

But the Sheriff... I could see the Sheriff being the type to hide a sack of candy in a drawer where some hide their hooch and tossing back a handful when no one is watching.

[How curious], I muttered to myself. I peered at this list. "You say there is more work for those who can read and write?" I looked to him.

His eyes widen. "Yeah! Hell, I could use some help doing mail sometimes. Dr. Ziegler could use the assistance, too. Help with painting. Reports, consensus... The Mayor could always use an extra set of hands."

I appreciated his kindness, but I doubted any self-respecting Mayor would hire a yellow man -- and a tattooed thug at that -- to work in his office. Lawless as the West was.

"Dr. Ziegler?" I asked instead.

"Oh yeah! She's just down the block a bit, can't miss the pole..."

I turned to him, eyes wide. "She?"

His mouth tightened. "Well, sure, she ain't a _real_  doc, can't be. But her husband was. She always helped him -- she has the books and the learnin', she can patch up anybody. God damned miracle worker." His tone had an edge of defiance and defense to it.

I blinked. I looked down at my pot. _Strange town..._

"Hnn," I said instead, taking the pot. I got rice, as well. Jerky. Tea. A kettle (the pot could be used for both, but goodness, having a hint of umame in your tea was all kinds of unsettling). Licorice. A sweet-smelling cherry cured tobacco. A pipe. I knew this was going to be a good haul, and ruin most of my savings, but...

And a blanket. There was a beautiful one, thick woken, but soft to the touch. The zig-zag stripes of white and black and blues and a taste of yellow... I smiled.

And... I looked at bridles. They were a bit more than I could afford for now, but I put the number aside in my head.

"Robbed you pretty good, huh?"

"I have a tea cup left..."

He laughed. "Well, at least you got a good spirit about it."

_"Perhaps that is your problem. They want to see what jests you will make next."_

I shrugged, the echo uncomfortable. The cherry-cheeked man typed up the order and quoted me a number that... I noticed was lower than I had in my head, but I did not question him. I paid him, secretly pleased at the extra pocket money, and eyed the bridle... But I did not want to get it quite yet.

I would. After I picked a name for her.

I thanked him, and he helped me carry it out to the mule.

[You are still here], I commended her.

She snorted. _Where else would I be? You tied me here._

I rifled her big bunny ears, and she nipped at me kindly. He left the crate nearby, and I unloaded, tucking things into her bags.

"Well, hello there," he greeted, a fat fingered hand at her snout. She gave the obligatory investigation and then turned to me.

_Who is the guy in the monkey suit?_

I smiled, and kept packing.

"Hey, sweetie..." This time she nibbled at him, and he stroked her muzzle. "What's the name?"

I regarded her... the way her big bunny ears tweaked back, as if mildly curious what I was going to answer. But only mildly.

 _Bunny ears_. "She is Usagi," I answered. Why not? "It means 'rabbit' in Japanese."

His jaw dropped. "Japanese? Oh, I'm sorry. I had assumed..."

"Yes," I cut him off. "Most people do." If I was a little rough tying off a bag, she grunted at me in reprisal. I gave her an apology stroke and then draped my new blanket over everything. I paused to stroke the blended blues, like the oceans I had sailed over to come here...

It really was a beautiful blanket.

"I thank you for your kindness," I said, offering him back his crates.

"Oh, no problem! You come back if you need anything else."

"I will," I said, mounting the mule.

"And, uh... I didn't get your name."

I smirked. "You didn't," I agreed, tugging on the reins. "I am undecided as of yet."

He gave me an understanding smile and nodded. "I get that." His eyes regarded the blanket. "What about Mr. Blue?"

I raised my brow... Looking back at the blanket. He would pick an English word that was hard to pronounce on a Japanese tongue. "Momoiro," I said, feeling contrary.

"Momoiro..." he said, testing it. Then he nodded. "Momoiro it is."

He gave my Usagi a last pet and then carried his crates back into the store. As we rode off, I had the passing suspicion that he was the kind that would go to the Sheriff as soon as I wasn't in sight and share this new information.

Momoiro, I thought. What a ridiculous name... What business did I have naming things when I was hungover like this?

Oh well. It would have to do for now.

xxx

The town was actually decently sized. Not Tokyo by any account, but not the three shack set up that was centered around a watering hole that a lot of desert 'towns' seemed to be. Main street stretched from cobbler and cooper on one end to blacksmith and leatherworker on the other -- the side closest to the mountain that loomed to the North. In the center of town was the Mayor's office and bank, Sheriff McCree's shop and the Point, Winston's general store, and even a pawn shop. On the North end of town, there was also a cathouse, soiled doves loitering on the porch in the afternoon, lacey fans at the ready. There was also a playhouse, another bar (more dingy whiskey and cigars than Lena's place), and a church on the South end, just a little separated from the main street itself, its white steeple impossible to miss in the distance. Her bells rang on the hour, a beautiful gong that kept the day from being a long, dragging madness of heat and dust. I spent a couple hours wandering about, taking note of the seamstress and the butcher, three different inns, and then the outskirts of town that had homes and farmers on wagons and stands, peddling their wares. There were three jewelers, each of a distinctive style, but most of them boasting silver and turquoise and other rocks from the area. There were two Chinese establishments -- one a tea house and brothel, something of the more traditional geisha style, and the other a laundry. My heart twisted, thinking of the old man, and stopped in there for service.

[Good afternoon!] a woman greeted me. She had to be in her 50s, lovely crow's feet and laughter lines on her feet. She spoke Mandarin. [How are you today?]

[Tired], I jested, and she laughed. [I am new in town. Hoped you could help me get the dust off my clothes.]

[Oh, definitely], she assured me. [Can't promise it will stay off, though. But then you come back, yes?]

"Hai," I agreed.

She blinked, and her lips smirked. "Oh, I have not heard 'hai' in a long time." She eyed me sideways, tugging at the bag I had set on the table. "You come from the Land of the Rising Sun, ah?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Ha ha... I hear it." She poked through my clothes. "I have a fun surprise for you, my friend." And then she winked. "I am not Chinese either."

...I was definitely surprised. "Really? Then where do you hail from?"

"I am Korean," she said. "Raishan Song. They call me River."

I nodded. [Pleased to meet you], I said, touching a hand to my breast and bowing my head.

[Oh, bless you], she muttered in her tongue. [You speak Korean as well?]

[I am very well learned.] I regard her. [Now I have to ask if the lady at the teahouse is Chinese.]

She laughed. [She is... But only one of her girls is. She also has two Japanese girls, a Korean, and two Vietnamese.]

[Vietnamese? All the way out here?]

[She calls it Taste of the Orient for a reason], she giggled. [She is wicked, but very clever.]

I chuckled. [...This is a strange town.]

[Yes, it is...] She pulled out an abacus, and hummed, quoting me. I haggled, and she played coy... But I got it down to quite a bargain.

[You are very good at this], she said.

[Thank you.] We both laughed. [...Although I wonder. What would be a good place in town to start?]

[To start?]

[Well... I mean, the man at the general store had a list of work, but... It is harder when you do not have pink skin.]

She hummed. [Actually, you will find this town is not so bad about that. We have all kinds of strange types. And I do say _strange_. The seamstress is from Egypt. Our Doctor is Swiss, and a woman. The barmaid at the Point dresses like a boy and loves to be called _Sir_. And Madame Lacroix at the Velvet Rose obliges for all types. There are boys for boys there, and half of them do Shakespeare at the Desert Flower on the weekend.] She laughed. [Even the Sheriff is an ex-Pinkerton and Confederate. Our priest a Mexican from California. We're all strange characters here. They would be more welcoming than you would think.]

I blinked at her. _Ex-Pinkerton and Confederate?_   "...That does sound strange."

"I will say, though. Amari did just have to kick out a tenant. If you are looking for a room, you might try her." She nodded to my shirt. "She's likely to fix your button as you talk, too, ha! I would keep that shirt on."

I looked down and laughed. "Oh, you saw that?"

She winked. "I work Chinese laundry. It's my job to make sure I don't lose buttons."

xxx

Intrigued, I walked around the town a little more. The blacksmith had signage in German as well as English and Spanish. The seamstress had Arabic. The Velvet Rose was in English, Spanish and French, and the Sheriff's office had eight signs in different languages. _Lots of work if you can read and write_ , the man at the general store had said. But read and write what? Goodness gracious.

The seamstress shop had a gold painting of the eye of Horus, with a camel and needle. There was a quote there, but I did not read Arabic, and could not tell you what it said. I tied up Usagi, bid her behave, and stepped in.

The fan was made out of some kind of palm read, and it swirled the air about, making it a good bit cooler. There was a girl, maybe early 20s, and she smiled.

"Welcome," she said. "How can we help?"

"Actually... I was told that the owner of this establishment has a room for let?"

"Ah! Yes! One moment, please." She stood, and leaned into the doorway, and said some Arabic to someone I could not see. And older voice answered, and an older woman came forward.

They looked almost identical. The same round face, chocolate eyes, dark skin. But the child's hair was black, and the mother had lovely heathered silver and a black patch over one eye.

"Welcome," she greeted, coming to the counter. The girl returned to her sewing. "Room for let? You new to town?"

"I am," I said. "I just got in yesterday, actually."

"Mm." She gave me an appraising eye, and her eye stopped. "I see." She blinked, and I hid a smile. _She saw my missing button._

"I was just at the cleaner's, Ms. Song recommended you."

"Did she?"

"Indeed." I couldn't help but smile. She was staring...

"I'm sorry, it's just..." She gave me a thin smile. "You have a button missing, did you know?"

"Do I?" I looked down at myself, plucking at my vest and -- "Oh! So I do."

"You know, we are _seamstresses_ ," she said. "We could fix it for you."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose..." I insisted, noting with some amusement that she was already pulling open little drawers, and glancing back at me.

"No imposition," she replied. "It would be my pleasure. You are new here. A kindness."

"Well, if you insist..."

"Oh, I do, _ibn,_ please."

I didn't know what 'ibn' meant, but I saw the girl roll her eyes with a fond smile and shake of her head.

"Alright." I unbuttoned the vest, and then the shirt. I debated the fact she would see my tattoo and react as poorly as he had...

...But if she was to be my landlady, she would need to know.

When I shrugged it off, their eyes moved to my tattoo.

"Oh my..." the seamstress murmured. "That is beautiful."

"Thank you." I offered her the shirt, and I think she licked her lip as she slid her eyes over my dragons. They squirmed, enjoying the attention.

"Are you badly hurt?"

"It is healing," I answered. "My doctor was a little overzealous with his knife. It's taking longer than it should."

"Hmm." But she tore her eyes away to my shirt again, comparing it to her collection. "So what do you do?"

"Oh... I can do lots of things. I can read and write, for one. Winston says that would be helpful."

"You met Winston already?" she said. "That's good. He is a good man. Very helpful. And when he says he can get you most anything, it's very true. He has acquired things I challenged him could not be got, and he got them anyway."

...I wondered if he could get sake, then. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Aha..." She smirked, satisfied, finding a button that matched well. "So you are not working yet? Oh, of course not. You said you came in yesterday. So you have money for rent now?"

"A little," I admitted. "I was thinking of an inn, but... It seems an interesting town. I might stay a while. Seems smarter to pay rent instead of buying a room for the night."

"How very forward thinking of you," she said, poking through thread this time. "Cleverness pays dividends." She peered at a spool. "Any queer habits I should know about?"

_"Yeah! He broods like you kicked his puppy when you upset him and drowns his sorrows in sake," Jesse answered. "And he'll sic his dragons on ya if you ever betray him."_

_"Jesse!"_

_"What? She asked."_

"I am quiet," I said instead. "I keep to myself, and I do not cause trouble. If anything, I am too quiet. I have a tendency to accidentally sneak up on people."

The girl giggled, and her mother smiled. "Oh, McCree will love you, then. He's a loud, clumsy oaf. If you are very quiet and sneak up on him, you will likely catch him by surprise. Be careful, he can be grumpy in the mornings before his third cup of coffee."

I felt my stomach flip. "McCree?"

"Oh! Sorry. The sheriff, Mr. McCree? He is also a tenant of mine. But he is upstairs, the room I have for let is downstairs. You will hear him plenty, coming up and down the stairs."

The girl made an amusing impression, gently slamming her fists on the table, clicking tongue playing as his spurs. Her mother laughed.

"Fareeha, stop," she hissed, grinning. "God, you'll do that where he can hear you one day, and he'll whip you."

"Ha! I'd like to see him catch me, first," she teased, tugging on her thread.

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and cleared it. It helped little. "Who else is...?"

"Well. It's me. Fareeha has her room, then there is McCree, Louis, and downstairs will be you and Dr. Ziegler."

"She used to be upstairs, but she traded with Lou."

Amari the elder muttered something under her breath. "Don't ask. Way too much drama. I'm sure Fareeha can tell you later."

I looked at the girl and she gave me a wink. I allowed myself a smile. "How is Dr. Ziegler? I keep hearing her name."

"Oh, she's a good sort. A bit of a tight upper lip, but she's been a bit tight ever since her husband passed away, poor dear. Works herself to death, if you ask me. But she keeps everyone patched up pretty good." She nodded to the wound. "That bothers you, you should ask her to look at it."

"I wouldn't want to bother anyone," I said softly.

She snorted, cutting a length of thread. "Oh, nonsense. She loves to dote. She fusses, really. But oh, she'll take good care of you. Hot water for your feet, wools for your bed, pickle soup when you're sick..."

Fareeha made an unpleasant sound that made me chuckle.

Her mother smiled... then looked to me. "It is a nice house. Between Lou and Jesse, the boys keep us smiling. Doc keeps us well, and Fareeha keeps us young."

"One day I will run off with Lou and you'll be destitute without me."

She snorted. "I'm a little more worried about him running off with that Song girl. Her mother will be beside herself."

I watched them work, sure hands and watchful eyes.

"Do you cook?"

"Oh, um... A little. Not anything fancy... But I can feed myself."

"Can you feed me?" she teased.

I laughed. "If you like rice?"

"Darling, I will eat anything someone else makes me. Lou doesn't cook much, but McCree might, particularly on Sundays before church. He'll cook all the eggs in my house, and potatoes and more. Fareeha is learning. Her curry is not as good as mine, though."

"Mama, no one's curry is as good as yours."

"Absolutely right. And I'm keeping it that way."

They shared a fond smile, and I found I rather liked them.

"So how is... Lou?" I asked.

"Lou works at the Point," she said. "He is the cards dealer."

"Ahhh! Yes, no-- I, I played there. Last night. He had mahjong tiles! I was very impressed."

"Oh, ibn, he can play poker, mahjong, canasta, Chinese checkers..."

"I love his marbles," Fareeha said. "They're so beautiful."

"...Blackjack, chess, checkers, tic-tac-toe if you want. Anything. I've seen him try to place bets on a hopscotch game."

Fareeha giggled. "Mama, that was a joke."

"And yet, I believed him," she said. "What does that say?"

I watched her fiddle with the end of the shirt, knotting as she went.

"What is your price?"

"Well... Be honest, I feel cruel giving you a number." She looked up at me. "Plus, if Song sent you here, she likes you. And if she likes you, then I want to give you a chance. I do not want to scare you away with a number."

I blushed. "I am honored."

"Hey, Song is hard to impress," she said. "Unless you speak Korean or something, then she's easily swayed."

I tilted my head and scratched at my beard. _Noted_.

"...Still." She laid out the shirt and reached for a pair of scissors. "I want you to get settled first. Learning a new town is hard. Get some work, and when that happens, I can tell you how much you will owe me. And if it's highway robbery, you can report me to the Sheriff."

"Who is also under your roof..."

She smirked. "And under my thumb," she said in a low purr. "It's a bit of a trap, isn't it?"

Fareeha held her head high, proud of her wicked, wicked mother. I was smiling, too.

"Well. I don't have much choice then, do I?"

"Oh, you always have a choice..." She brushed away the excess thread and presented the shirt to me. "But I am telling you now, your options are limited, and I'm probably the best offer you'll get."

"I'm sure anyone would say that," I teased, sliding my arm into a sleeve.

"Honestly. Your alternatives are a pair of blacksmiths who stay up all night drinking -- and one of them is _very_ loud -- or a pair of miners -- one of whom never speaks -- or living next door to a whore house. Unless you like that kind of thing, but I find it hard to sleep in the wee hours so close to all that screaming and moaning."

"Mama!" Fareeha protested.

"Fact of life, child," she answered back. "I'm just grateful you are here, like a good girl, and not there."

Her daughter blushed furiously as I buttoned up my shirt. "Your mother has a point. It's not the best occupation to have."

"You will find us on the Southwest side. We're behind the butcher and a silver shop. Do you know where that is?"

I nodded. "Hai. I do."

"Excellent. Do you have a beast of burden?"

"A mule," I answered.

"There is a small stable on the West side, opposite Main St. We're within view of everything, not much of a walk, but enough distance to keep out the noise and some room for gardening. Not that there's much of a garden, but one day."

I smiled. "I can help with that. I like to garden."

"Ibn, if you can make anything grow out in this wilderness... You'd be a miracle worker."

I chuckled, shrugging on my vest.

She held out a hand. "Ana Amari."

I shook it. "Ah... Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada. But I think, for now, call me Momoiro. Maybe you know, but... I have a name that makes people nervous."

"Good! Let them be nervous. People see me, they don't know what to do. They think they're desert flowers, but we! We are Egyptian. We've been doing this for millennia."

"That's right!"

"This is Fareeha. She is the love of my life. The precious thorn in my side."

"I get it from you," she replied, twisting her fingers into a heart. Her mother did the same in reply with a grin.

I laughed. "You two are quite fun."

"You say that now. Wait until you are late on rent." She grabbed a drink from nearby and sipped. "Stay safe out there. Keep drinking."

"I will," I said, putting on my hat and tipping it. "Thank you, ladies."

"And you."

I stepped back out to Usagi, who looked to me expectantly. _Well?_

[She could have quoted me a million dead a month and I would have taken it], I told her, scratching her ears. [He lives there as well.]

She blinks, not believing me.

[It's true. He lives upstairs.] And then, in a conspiring whisper, [Imagine the debauchery.]

She snorted. I chuckled, and got on.

[Alright. Southwest. Find the stove... Have something to eat. And then... I don't know.]

Usagi, for her part, did not seem particularly troubled. She did not have any need to make plans for the day. She was game for whatever.


	5. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hanzo gets to meet Dr. Ziegler and is shown around his new home. Some not-so-sexy gunplay and carefully written foreshadowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAI GUYS!!! I had to move and stuff, made it hard to get time to focus on writing, but I wanted to get Coyote and Jack Rabbit going again because I love you.
> 
> DON'T FORGET! You can follow me on Twitter, Tumblr and Instagram via @SmutWithPlot, and I have a Patreon and Facebook @LoonyMoonyProductions that you can follow for other things.

I was being reckless. I knew I was being reckless. Every rational bone in my body told me to search around town, see what my options were, get a real number -- even if it was a terrifying prospect -- instead of signing on to an open contract like this, especially knowing that I would sign it anyway, no matter what the cost. I owed it to myself to at least shop around and demand a fair price, even if it meant not living in the same building because I couldn't afford to be gouged...

And yet, I did not stop my donkey anywhere else. I rode on.

We headed Southwest, and as we crept closer to the center of town, I found myself slipping behind the westerly line of buildings to avoid being seen by the Sheriff that would not leave my mind, all surly purrs, black coffee and fat, spiced cigars. I could defend myself with some clever proverb about choosing battles wisely, but in truth, it was because my cowardice knows no bounds. As we came upon the weathered wood of the house in question, I noted the golden star lovingly painted on a swinging sign on the porch. I wondered if that was the work of my coyote or of the sharp-eyed seamstresses, but it made for a simple warning that this was not a house to rob. It had two stories and seemed almost to be an inn in the original intention... Which isn't to say it technically wasn't, but for a longer term stay. I rode us alongside and found the stables to the West as promised, and they were generously sized as well.

There were eight stalls, most of them occupied. The first denizen to catch my attention was the demanding grumbling of a black stallion, sharp brown eyes regarding me with suspicion and a touch of machismo as I slipped down from my steed. Next to him was a painted mare, splashes of milked tea on white, and beside her another of spotted ash. I about jumped out of my skin when a mule hopped up to thrust against the gate of his pen, and I saw it had been reinforced to maintain him -- a coat that was a shade of grey that ventured towards blue, spotted with a black mane that hee-hawed at Usagi, who put on a good show of not being startled. There was the whinny of a white mare beyond him, who may have been laughing at me, and I pursed my lips as I reached the end of the stables. There were empty slots stashed with straw, which meant the only open space was the empty slot opposite the stallion...

I moved my eyes over the placards in front of each steed. The ashy mare was Ramad, and the painter was Shay, both written in English, and then a rolling script in black that would probably be Arabic -- these would belong to the seamstresses. The white one had butter-yellow hair and a touch of pink to her nose, and peered over the edge of the stall to sniff at me, and I offered her a hand as I looked to her sign: Angel. The hopping mule stumbled to his feet, but clambered up again, braying at Usagi, and she chided him with her own haw, and I smiled as I recognized the little green cartoon drawing of a frog next to FROG MAN.

[I wonder how you got your name, eh?] I teased. I moved my Usagi along, and I spotted her eye catching on the other mule, despite her best attempts to appear unimpressed. He clambered down again, and back up to the side wall as I led her into the stall beside him, and she turned to regard him with passing interest.

[If you were not mules, I might be concerned], I purred. She ducked her bunny ears back with a snort of _ridiculous,_ like any embarrassed child would a suggestive parent. I tied her in place, removing her saddle and bags for the conveniently placed post before her stall, tested the lock, and then brought her straw for bedding. I didn't see the grain right away, moving around the stables, eyes finding bridles and crops and cleaning tools and...

Oh, there it was. I brought some grain to her trough, and she took to her meal with quiet enthusiasm. Her neighbor brayed, and I chuckled, waving at him.

[You are not my responsibility], I told him. [You will have to wait for your Master.]

I wondered if he was the sheriff's, and giggled at the thought of the giant man riding the humble little mule...

But I looked at the stallion, who grumbled at me. His placard was blank, though a sheriff's star hung from the bridle beside him. The post held a saddle, dark and well-oiled leather, with shining silver bolts. My fingers moved over the warm flesh in the desert's falling afternoon sun, bags empty but at the ready, and tucked just behind the seat was a tightly bound blanket of wool grey--

_An ex-pinkerton and Confederate._

Bile at the back of my throat. I had not been here for the war that had torn apart the American nation, bloodshed fought over slavery that was still too common a thing, and as much as I didn't want to believe my cowboy would be in that number--

 _They would be more welcoming than you would think_.

I had known lawmen who were not very lawful. Could it not be unheard of, then, to find a Confederate who did not follow their ideals? It could be he was on the wrong side of the line when it was drawn, and he had done his duty, despite his own misgivings, as I once had...

The noise of the animals was enough to disguise boot steps on the dirt, but there was no disguising the high pitched click of a gun's hammer. Ice splashed down my spine, a habitual snarl on my lips as I flashed my head to find a woman with a small pistol pointed at my head.

Maybe I am not so surprised.

"You haff a lot of nerve, stealing a horse from ze Sheriff." Her mouth was pressed into a hard line, her words clipped. Her accent was... Germanic?

"I am stealing nothing," I hissed. "You are mistaken."

"Zen state your business."

"I am familiarizing myself with the animals in this stable," I answered, teeth in a snarl, "As I bring my own mule to her new home. I live here now."

As I turned to face her, I noted that her hands did not shake, as a woman's might if she was unaccustomed to holding a piece. Also, the pistol she carried was small, and fit her hands well, as if custom made. Her eyes were a bold and bright blue, and I watched them flash with recognition even if her expression didn't shift.

"You live here?" she repeated. Her buttermilk blonde hair shone with a golden halo in the setting sun, and I watched her back straighten and the tension in her shoulders ease, even as her brow tightened. "Name the others."

"The Sheriff," I answered, my hand still on his saddle. "Jesse McCree. The seamstress Ana Amari and her daughter, Fareeha. The card dealer from the Point. And you... Dr. Ziegler."

Her eyes widened... but she carefully lowered the gun. "That's right."

I kept my jaw tight, but in truth, I could not fault her caution. In fact, it pleased me to know my neighbors were so vigilant... Even if my pride chided me for being so distracted by my coyote's effects to have missed her arrival. I reluctantly removed my hand to offer it to her. "Call me Mr. Momoiro. I will be downstairs with you, yes?"

I saw her eyes sweep over me, lingering on the proffered hand... But she moved the gun to her left hand and took mine. "I suppose. She regarded me with a frown. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," I answered. Such lies came so easily when one was polite. "I was amusing myself trying to figure out which steed is whose."

A ghost of a smile, just as insincere. "I can tell you if you are right."

"Well... This one." I waved to the horse with no name, my fingers resting again on smooth, polished leather. "He has the star. I assume this belongs to the Sheriff. Although I would find it funny if the hopping mule was his."

She snorted, the lips turning into something with more genuine mirth. "That would be funny..." she agreed. But she didn't offer his identity.

"Is there one steed per person?" I asked instead.

She slipped her gun into a pocket in her skirts, and her hands went behind her. Her dress was a soft blue, like daisies, a white apron on her front with lovingly stitched pink roses trailing along the edges. "Yes, there is. We are blessed that each of us has a ride of our own."

I regarded the others. "...The two with the Arabic signs will be the seamstresses... But given the ashen one is younger, I will guess that belongs to the daughter."

"...Interesting assumption," she answered, not really an answer at all. She stepped closer, and I know she was still undecided if she bought my story, even as her eyes looked over my Usagi. My mule did not oblige her, turning away in her own belligerent manner. I felt a touch of smug satisfaction...

"Which leaves the mare and mule. Given your sense of propriety and his joviality..." The mule hopped up on his door with a clatter of exuberance, and I managed to keep myself from moving. "...I guess he belongs to the Negro, and the mare is yours."

"He is _not_  a Negro," she insisted. I looked back at her, and her lips were a hard line, eyes cold and cruel. "Just as you would not want to be a chink, nor I a kraut. I do not tolerate such language in my house. Nor am I just some woman. I am a _person_. And each person is deserving and worthy of respect as ze next, no matter zeir color. Understood?"

...Her accent colored her words. It added a sharpness to them that was admittedly intimidating, and I found myself secretly impressed, even if my face showed no change in expression.

"Understood," I answered, even. I turned a step. "I imagine you had a hard time of that living with..." I gestured to the saddle, and the wool blanket tied to it, and the war it came from. "...A Confederate."

Please please please...

"He _was_  a Confederate," she answered, still a hiss. "He was a gunman and a thief, too. Part of the James-Younger Gang. He has a bounty that makes most _outlaws_  whistle, and yet he has a pardon from ze President. People can change."

...And yet, there was something oddly scripted about her words. I regarded her, but her eyes left mine, moving instead to my mule. Pale hands reached out to a white muzzle, her coat cafe au lait. "What is your mule's name?"

"She is Usagi," I answered. "It means 'rabbit' in Japanese."

She looked up at that. Her eyes widening. "You are from Japan." It was less a question as an observation.

"I am." I moved with her to my mule, who seemed to not be bothered by the fact this woman had held me at gunpoint, so long as she got pets. Traitor. "She needs a good bath..." She regards me. "You just came into town?"

I nodded. "Just yesterday. I confess... I've been a little busy." A thin twist to my lips that didn't quite constitute a smile.

"If you like... I can do it. It's the least I could do for..."

I raised a brow. _For pulling a gun on me?_

"...The confusion." Diplomatic.

"I would appreciate it," I answered. "Provided she is cooperative. She can be..." I tilted my head to one side. "Spirited."

Another little snort in her nose. "That's one way to put it."

I kept my hands behind me, and I could see her eyes wandering...

_She's been a bit tight ever since her husband passed away..._

I made a note to keep myself at a distance from her hunger. Would be an awful manner in which to betray my true purpose here.

She seemed to realize she was staring, because she stepped back quickly, and put on a smile. "As it is. I was going to make dinner. Shall I give you a tour of the house first?"

"I would be much obliged." I kept my hands behind me as we walked, one clasped around the wrist of the other. They were still a mite sore from the cuffs.

"So... How did I do?"

"Hmm?"

"The steeds."

"Oh!" She pinked a little, and it was admittedly handsome... If not my style. "Right. You-you're actually right. The stallion is Jesse's. He usually goes through them pretty quickly, but I think that one's name is Shadow. He isn't likely to make a sign for him, you can probably use that one for your bunny. The mule is Lou's, yes, and Angel is mine." She smiled a little at the name. "She's a good girl. Real tough girl. Lena will borrow her now and again for quick rides out. Damn fast rider." The house was wrapped in a porch, the same weathered, dull grey wood all around, but the carpentry is immaculate. Our boots clattered on the planks, a well-worked rocking chair with a thin, embroidered pillow on the seat sat just to the side of the door, and a long bench beside. I had a strange notion it looked like rather like a stolen church pew. There was a nail lock on the door just to keep it from staying ajar, and she unhooked it and led me inside.

There was a wide a room, a staircase to the left wall, a circular table that could easily fit eight or twelve persons. For six, it should be plentiful. There was a basket with fresh fruit on it -- I licked my lips at the idea of the red apple perched on top -- and beyond that area, a counter that seemed to open into a large kitchen. There was a baking oven built of masonry in one corner, and a stove in this dining area as well, a kettle alongside and a small cabinet that would doubtless hold tea.

"This is the dining room... We usually share meals, just to make it easier -- makes us more of a family." She nodded, the words sounding scripted. "We generally just buy groceries as a whole as well. Ana and Jesse take care of most of it, though Lou is more likely to supply the booze..." She moved to the stairs, and there was a door tucked under them, and a passageway that led to the back of the house. "Upstairs is most everyone but you and me, should you have any need to go up there... But I doubt you will." She opened the door under the staircase, and I peeked in. A small room with a slanted ceiling held a porcelain bathtub and I raised my brow in surprise.

"A wash room."

She smiled. "Yep! Pretty lucky. Between the stove in the front and the hearth in the kitchen, you can get a goodly amount of hot water. There's a fresh well in the back, but we have a rather clever rig that one of the blacksmiths made for us that pumps it up here inside -- doesn't take much to fill her up to how you like it and then bathe." She touched a finger to another lovingly painted sign that said 'EMPTY', and she flipped it over to show 'IN USE'. She gave a wry smile. "This is here for a reason. Use it." She turned it back around.

I snorted to myself, wondering about a burly beast of a man startling an unfortunate widow into a good deal of shock by forgetting to turn a sign and scarring her for life...

Across from the washroom was an open doorway to the kitchen. "I'll show you that in a second... I want to show you the rooms first." She led down the hall, and it ended in a door to the back, locked from inside, and a turn to my right. I followed her around the corner, and there were two more doors on either side of the hall. "I'm the one on the right. Yours is this one." She opened the door to the left and I leaned in with her.

It was a long room, Maybe wide enough for a bed and a cabinet, but lengthwise, you could probably put a piano to one half and have room around it. Not much else, unless you liked tight quarters, but you could. At present, there was a cot in one corner, cotton downing and a quilt wrapped around the bedding, and a wardrobe opposite it. There was also a small stove in the far corner that would be helpful at night and for tea...

Perhaps it only seemed so big for the emptiness of it.

A tight smile. "It's a bit oddly shaped, but it's a nice size. I'm just opposite you, same sort of thing." She waited until I ducked back into the hall to close the door. She nodded to the end of the hall. "That's a storage closet. Right now it's mostly the armory. It's locked up for the most part, but Jess will bring home confiscated pieces for safe-keeping now and again." She eyed me. "I should warn you all of us know how to shoot a gun. He made sure of it. If you stick around long enough... He might teach you, too."

I made a non-committal noise. I said nothing else. She didn't seem to take offense, but I stepped aside to avoid contact as she moved back past me.

"Back to the kitchen, then..." I followed, and we made our way around the corner again. There was a hearth and oven, and the well tap, which she explained with the hand pump (and I tried it, to my delighted amusement) and she gave me a rundown of the pantry, stores, ice box... "We actually get ice and snow brought down from the mountain," she told me. "In fact, if things are quiet, you may be commandeered to make an ice run or three. There's a cache by the church that is just for freezing things! It used to be a vintner's, but crops didn't last, so... As a community, we decided to hoard ice for the summer. It's rather lovely out in the desert to have ice year round."

I gave another non-committal sound, but in truth, I was _fascinated_. Ice year round? The thought excited me. A pantry of cured and dried goods, canned goods, pots and tools and the like... The spices were full of things I'd only ever heard of, and I knew I would have to see to Winston about getting some of my own staples now that I had a kitchen on a more permanent basis...

I wondered if my coyote liked spicy things. I would rather love to make him a curry.

I made myself useful dicing up some root vegetables for the Good Doctor, and working together, we seemed to develop an understanding for each other. She set a cauldron into the fire and started the stew, adding potatoes and spices before suggesting I go fetch my things before it got too dark. I found that the front door was more direct from house to stables, but if I walked around the building, the back door was right next to my room. I rather liked the privacy of having my own way in and out, should I wish. I hauled my things to the room and spent a time unpacking...

Teas. My cup. My little dish. My pot and kettle. I tucked my clothes into the wardrobe, finding a waiting chamber pot, and tucked it by my bed. I gathered some well water from the kitchen and some logs from outside for my little stove and started up a little fire to cook. I portioned my leaves and brewed myself a full pot of oolong. I set the blanket on my bed and dressed down. I gave myself a sponge bath, not wanting to interrupt Dr. Ziegler while she was cooking, and after changing into fresh clothes, I spread out on my bed - MY BED!!! - for a while to just... Relax. It was nice. The tea helped to soothe me, and I made a note to get some incense when I had a chance...

I must have dozed off because I woke with a start when my door was knocked on.

"Mr. Momoiro?"

It was Amari. I blinked furiously, sitting up. "Hai!" I called. "Erm... You may open."

There was a hesitation, but the door handle twisted and the door opened, and her face peeked out. "Hello. I just wanted to let you know that dinner is nearly finished if you wish to join us."

...I could smell it now. My stomach betrayed me by growling and I gave her a shy smile as she giggled. "I will be just there. Arigatou."

I tucked in my shirt, buttoned myself up, pulled my hair back into a ribbon of bright yellow -- I had the yellow, the blue and the black just now. I would have to get more from Winston -- and stepped out of my room, closing it behind me.

I could hear my own boots pounding on the carpeted floors almost as loudly as my heart banging in my ears as I walked what seemed like a miles-long path to the main sitting room, and yet was gone in an instant.

The chandelier was lit above, bathing everything in warmth. There were bodies around, the Doctor fussing and filling bowls--

"Is Mr. Momoiro coming or--?" She stopped when she saw me, and she smiled. It was a little more... Like her first ones. Guarded and watching.

I kept my hands tucked in my pockets as I approached. Just under Dr. Ziegler, the n-- the card player from the Point, his face split in a friendly, welcoming smile.

It, too, dampened a taste.

Fareeha was on the other side of the table, moving a basket of rolls, and looked up at me, then sat beside her mother, who was smiling at me kindly, a mischief to her eye.

But the one I was really worried about was the broad shoulders with their back to me. Wrapped in a shirt of butter yellow, plaid with red like chili peppers.

His skin was like... Red dirt, bronzed, beautiful. Like the desert sunrise...

Chocolate and caramel locks moved as his face turned to eye me sideways.

The coyote sniffed. _You again_.

"Huh," he said only, with a grunt. His eye wandered over me, up and down... But he didn't see anything that seemed to particularly concern him. He turned back to the table, and... It felt dismissive, even though I saw his shoulders tighten. Angela's lips pursed as she returned to tending to the empty seat between the Sheriff and the Dealer, and there was another between lady Amari and the Dealer...

I could sit beside him or across from him. My chest tightened, as I stepped a little closer...

"You'll be here, Mr. Momoiro," Dr. Ziegler said, crisply, deciding for me. She touched the chair she was standing at, and brushed past me back into the kitchen to refill the jug of water.

I watched her go, and... Reluctantly turned back to the table.

I slipped into the chair, silent as I could be, and certainly, all eyes were on me.

I kept my eyes on my plate, not trusting myself to speak, even as my eyes darted up at all of them.

Fareeha was genuine with her smile. "Would you like a roll, Mr. Momoiro?" she asked, offering the basket.

"Hai," I answered softly, only tilting my head up enough to meet her eye and then dart back to the basket. I took a roll from the basket and deposited it to my plate. Beside me, the Sheriff was already eating, and the black man took the basket from her with thanks and served himself.

I tried for the life of me to remember what his name was. I felt as if there were shibari wrapped around me, holding me in position, a stiff and unpleasant posture chosen before I could decide against it, and now I was left with the discomfort. Out of the side of my eye, I watched the Sheriff help himself to the meal. He had his right hand in his lap and was using the fork in his left.

_He's left-handed._

A shadow of a memory, my salty kisses, blades in hand as I tugged him close for my last gift, how his _right paw_  had touched my hip, holding me close, the left at his side, holding his gun away from me...

_...How could I have forgotten that?_

I felt my heart twist as I took a bite of my dinner, knowing I would not taste any of it.


	6. Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know you, getting to know all about--
> 
> Wait, wrong story. In which two stubborn men dance around each other for sport and drive each other slowly mad.

"So. It's Momoiro, right?"

Hanzo Shimada, trained assassin, solo ronin, Master of Shimada Clan, head of a family of ninja that dated pre-samurai... Now Mr. Momoiro. A snarky, shitty comeback that I will have to live with for the foreseeable future.

"Yes, that's right."

I think Han was right. The ancestors must find me endlessly entertaining. I bet they got a good laugh at me trying to coach the little one how to pronounce it properly. Trying not to earn the name in practice.

"And what brings you to Silver City?" asked the dealer beside me. I wish I could remember his name.

"I heard there was work here," I answered, which wasn't strictly a lie. "It can be hard finding work when you're..."

I was going to say 'yellow', but I stopped myself as I looked around the table -- a Negro card dealer dressed sharp as any shark. A European immigrant woman who had the respect of the townsfolk as a fully-fledged doctor, honorarily or not. The Arabic woman who was here with a daughter but not a husband, and owned the property where we all lived...

...And of course, my coyote, whose skin seemed even redder compared to Amari's sand and the Negro's coffee beans and the Doctor's milk. Throughout it all, he hardly spoke, though I saw his eye watching me sideways when I dared to glance in his direction.

"...On your own," I said instead. "So many people do not trust strangers, but..." I looked to my so-quiet coyote. It was so strange, how tight he was. He did not speak. When before he had talked so much. "I heard your name, Sheriff."

He regarded me a moment. He seemed to brace himself for what I was going to say next. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going with the thought either.

I looked back to my plate. I could see that familiar _What are you?_  in his eyes. Perhaps he had decided I was a snake and now had to learn if I was the kind to bite or smother him.

_It was a long shot anyway._

"Honestly, I just needed a place to start over," I said quietly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

_It was raining. The other passengers had already boarded, and it was reckless to be so late, but I had wanted to finish another round or three of poker, a couple more dollars in my pocket, another bottle of sake in my bag. As I clambered up the gangplank, the sailors regarded me with distaste. I was still wearing my kimono at that point. They knew I was not Chinese. But when I met the Captain and handed him the payment, he nodded to one of the deckhands to escort me below deck._

_I remembered when I had been treated like a god. Worshipped with parasols and porthole windows. Someone else would carry my luggage, and the Captain gave me his cabin for the voyage. Here, I had only a knapsack to my name, and I clutched it close. There was no umbrella for the rain, and as I counted faces in the room he led me to, I knew that_ _the hammocks and bunks would not hold all of us at once._

_[Safe voyage], he muttered in Mandarin. I thanked him in his own tongue, and found a wall and spot of floor to claim as my own._

_I saw a mother with her three children, dirty faced and mean eyed, but I am sure I was as filthy as they were._

_All aboard to America. Land of dreams and opportunity. I wondered if they knew that the world they were running towards was just as hostile, if not less compassionate, than the worlds they were running from._

"...Chasing the American Dream, you might say," I added, a touch of bitterness as I thought of the relentless judging eyes I'd been running from for a decade now. The roundness didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"You say you heard my name," McCree said. His voice still sounded strange to my ears. A pleasant strange, but it was not the voice that I had listened to for so long. It was rougher, as mine was, from age and smoke and hard drink and the dust and desert and hard living. "And yet you told Lena that we were old friends."

The table went quiet. One lie on top of another. I saw that maybe the coyote took some of his lawman work seriously.

"I knew a McCree once," I admitted. "A long time ago. I cannot know if you are him. But I did hear of you, Sheriff. I had the thought you might, by some twist of fate, be the same man."

I locked gaze with him, those eyes such a beautiful chocolate brown, too sweet and wet, an indulgence I shouldn't partake in. I could see a glimmer of hope there, but... I couldn't be sure if it wasn't merely my imagination. Seeing what I wanted to see. Projecting childish dreams on an old man.

"Well... What was he like?"

I gave him a tight smile and a shrug. "It is hard to remember. It was so long ago."

_"STOP LYIN'!"_

My spectre slammed his fist on the table, and I inwardly flinched. The real McCree stared at me... And I watched the light die in his eyes.

His jaw tightened. A grunt in his nose. He said nothing more, fork stabbing at meat, eyes on his plate. I did the same, forcing myself to chew food I did not care to eat anymore.

"Well, perhaps you and I can go over a map of the town in the morning," Amari suggested, changing the subject. Most diplomatic woman. "See what you can offer, and I can direct you to who might benefit best from your skills."

I gave her a tired, but grateful smile. "I would be very appreciative. Arigatou gozaimasu." I bowed my head to her, and then to Angela. "And to you, Dr. Ziegler. your hospitality has been wonderful."

Amari smirked, and the Doctor burned a bright pink.

"You are welcome, ibn."

"Please. It was nothing..."

The man on the other side of me laughed, shaking his head. "Angie, I don't think I seen you that shade of pink sober before."

She gave him a glare, but even McCree snorted beside me. The sheriff leaned towards me. "You drink much, stranger?"

"Now and again," I said.

He smirked. "Can you hold your own?"

"Oh lord..." the Doctor muttered. Amari the elder preened, while the younger's eyes glittered.

I tilted my head to look down my nose at him, a smug smile growing on my lips. "Of course I can."

The Sheriff slapped a hand on the table with a satisfied grin. "Drunk poker. It's happenin'."

"YES..." hissed Fareeja, and her mother chuckled.

"Now, Boss, I oughta warn you," the dealer said. "I'm pretty sure this cat counts cards."

I looked to him with a scoff. "How dare you."

Amari hummed. "Oh, this will be fun."

"That's fine, I cheat at cards, too," McCree purred. "We'll see who the better man is."

"You're on." This, I could do.

The rest of dinner was an interrogation about what games I knew and the Sheriff knew and the dealer knew so a fair game could be had. I volunteered to help clean up, but Amari insisted I sit and indulge the boys as she, her daughter and Dr. Ziegler helped clean up. I at least set up a kettle and tea, while the Sheriff fetched two bottles of whiskey for the game, and another of a clear spirit he called "moonshine" -- the evil water from yesterday at Lena's. Amari enjoyed a cup of tea and two rounds of poker before she called it a night. Fareeha followed three rounds after that before retiring. By the time Ziegler had finished dishes and prepared bread for baking in the morning with breakfast (she promised to show me later), we were halfway through a bottle of whiskey between us, and the Sheriff had a mind for mischief.

"What say you we raise the stakes a bit?" he asked, and I watched the dealer -- Louis. His name was Louis -- smile to himself, a vacant, illusory thing, clever and withheld, as he shuffled again.

"I am listening," I answered, polishing off a congratulatory shot of whiskey. It burned smooth, but cruel. I knew standing would be a bad idea, but it was easy to play cool when I had the back of a chair to lean on. I felt loose and wonderful, the Sheriff looked cozy and delicious, and I was sure that Louis saw my eyes wandering. The hand was dealt, the prize set in the pot. A shot of moonshine this time. McCree was saving it for double downs and a whimsy, each round rewarding the best with a shot to take at their leisure. It was a trap of a game -- a cheater would get more drunk, and presumably more handicapped. And sloppy.

"Mmm. Forgive me. I thought you meant something else."

The Sheriff still had a wide, crooked smile, and those lips were succulent and tempting. "Well, I mean. I'm open to suggestions. What else would you like to wager?"

It was an open ended question. I had the temptation to answer _you_ , but I was sure Louis might not agree to those terms. The Dealer set out three cards on the table before us.

I checked my cards, ruminating on the option. Crap hand. I wathed McCree slide forward a card and Louis dealt him one. I asked for two more, and nothing still. Louis put his own card in the discard pile as he collected ours and dealt himself another.

At this point, we were hardly raising bets. We were just picking at hands and drinking.

Jesse folds, and I drop my own sad hand. Louis, however, is a grinning loon as he reveals a Full House.

"Thank you, gentlemen..." he purred, reaching for the shot glass and pulling it to him, his eyes glittering with drink.

I toss my cards towards Louis, and he adds it to the discard, dealing again. "Well, I do not have much cash to bet with."

McCree snorted. "Well, that seems a little obvious." He scratched his beard, and I was tempted to chase his fingers with my teeth... "How about somethin' else?"

"Chores?" Louis offered.

"I do not see that I have many chores to bet with either," I drawled, my words slurring a bit.

"Well, you got the donkey," McCree answered. "You can always invent a thing. You know. Be creative."

" _Don't tell him that_ ," my spectre warned, even as I smiled.

"...Perhaps I can be." I nodded.

"I'll get some paper," Louis offered, a twist to his own words as he went to fetch a notebook from somewhere upstairs.

...My eyes followed him up the steps and out of sight. Then they flit back to _him_.

He looks like the cat that ate the canary. Smug and satisfied. He watches me sideways, his eyes as caramel as the whiskey, and his finger taps at the table.

"How about while we wait for him... A simpler game?"

I raised a brow, giving him a wave of my hand. He leans heavily on the table (and I tell myself not to reach out and take his hand because that would be very inappropriate, lovely an idea as it seems) and reaches over to Lou's spot to steal the deck of cards. He sits back down with a groan.

"Blackjack," he purrs. A card face down for me... And one for him. "Wager: honest answer to a question. Any question." He raises a brow in challenge. "Acceptable?"

...I like how resourceful he is. I trail a finger over my lip, wondering what other ways he can use that clever mind to trick me... But I nod. "Hai."

He drops a King over mine... And then another over his. I quirk a brow, amused. I lean my head to peek under...

A 2 of hearts. How poetic. I smirk.

He has a smirk, too. "Need a hit?"

"Hai." And I tap my fingers, as is customary. He gives me a 2... And himself a 10.

I'm at 14. He has a good poker face... If he has an Ace under there, he's at 21. If he doesn't... He's a bust.

My eyes narrow at him, trying to decipher what he's thinking, but his eyes seem almost... Clouded. Closed off. As if he wasn't at all invested in this hand, and it was just a game after all.

Like he didn't have a burning question on his tongue, taking the perfect chance to find it out. I watch him pointedly look up the stairs.

"You found it yet?" he hollers up.

"Just a second!" I hear a muffled Lou reply. And then there's a curse and a flummoxed sound of something dropping, and I snort beside myself.

His eyes come back to me. They're warm... Delicious. I could melt in them. And my eyes wander over his face, that long nose, a scar across the top from a scuffle. That scruffy, odd-looking beard of his. Those plump, tempting lips... Those strong, nimble hands, dusted with fur, turning and shuffling the cards as he waited...

I tap. He smirks.

"Bit risky, ain't it?" he drawled, looking down at the cards to peel one off the top and slid it on top.

A 7. My smirk turns into a grin. That's a 21. I look up at him, and he has a lazy smile to his lips like he's already won... And this is for show.

"Stay," I say only.

He looks up at me through his lashes, his right hand still holding the cards while the last reveals his face down as I do...

...He had a four. I look up at him, surprised.

"Bust," he whispered. "Damn."

He moves his hand to sweep up my cards, his fingers brushing against mine, his eyes still low and watching, his satisfaction not diminshed. I stay in my own space, but I allow him to invade mine...

...Which is when I realize that it didn't matter to him who won or lost. It was the conversation.

That question burning in him... He presumed that it was burning in me too.

Ohhh he shouldn't assume such things when I am so drunk. I get rebellious and catty.

He shuffled the cards back into the deck, and those hands I had dreamed of had never been so close... I watched him handle them with care and precision, and I marveled at his finesse with so much drink in his system. "So what's yer question?"

On a wilder spirit, I might have kissed him and avoided the mess of words. But McCree had a good whiskey, and it made me indulgent.

Besides. There was sly part of me that told me I was fairly certain I already knew the answer. And maybe I was enjoying the dance around it a bit more than was wise.

"What happened between you and Dr. Ziegler?"

He blinked at me, and I felt my mischievous little smile grow wider. He had not expected that, and the confused little pout to his lip made me want to bite him. I bit my glass instead, under the pretense of catching a last drop of drink.

"Of all the damn things in the world you could ask me," he said quietly, as if to himself.

"I could ask Fareeha," I teased with a shrug of my shoulder, and if my shirt had fallen open somewhere along the way, I pretended not to have noticed. "I could not help but notice. The empty spaces seem to be at your side. The stall in the stables. The chair at the table. She watches you like you might bite her. You don't speak unless you must, and when you do you are curt. Just as you are with me."

I seem to have him stunned for a moment. I move to lean forward, and his eyes widen, not sure what to do... But as I reach into his space, it is also for something not him. I retrieve the whiskey on pretense, and fill the two shot glasses beside me, and then set the bottle between us... In challege. "So tell me. What happened?"

His eyes linger on the bottle... The shot glasses. Then they flit to my fingers. My hands. And I see him trail up to meet my gaze.

"Misunderstandin'," he muttered, but I watched his hands tighten into fists. He looked away from me, and moved the deck of cards towards Lou's spot and avoids my gaze. "She was lonely. I was lonely. Two lonely people helpin' each other out ain't necessarily love." He works his jaw and... I dare say he looks ashamed. "She wants to be a dutiful wife. I ain't lookin' for that kind of thing."

...Pretty and foreign, I thought. I wondered if he gave everyone in the house custom pieces, or just the one he was sleeping with before he realized it wasn't going to work out. I wonder if she pulled it on him when he tried to break it off.

I wonder if that was before or after she stopped sharing his bed and sent him to his own room and begged Lou to switch spots with her.

...Speaking of the Devil. He finally comes down the steps, moving carefully, a hand on the railing, and the other waving a notebook. "Found somethin'! It'll do for now..." He hits the bottom a bit roughly, and as my eyes turn to watch him return to the table, the Sheriff snatches up the bottle of whiskey and takes a long swig.

"...Hey, now," Lou chided, watching him with concern. He actually does a third swig before he stops. "I didn't take that long, did I?"

"Long enough," he growled. The chair scraped beneath him as he stood, swaying on his feet.

...He is a _very_  big man, I noted again. But this time it was a touch intimidating. The scowl on his lips. The dark hunger in his eyes turned cold and angry. The glistening on his lips was less a temptation as a warning that he was very in his cups.

A very big, very drunk, not terribly happy man. And he towered over me.

"I'm goin' to bed," he grumbled. He snatched up his hat, and reached for his last victory shot, tossing it back. When he reached over the table, even Lou leaned back, watching him, wary, and he snatched at the moonshine. Then he looked at me, and I put on my own kind of poker face, keeping my eyes on the table before me.

He stole one of my whiskeys and tossed it back.

"You mother fuckers have fun without me."

My eyes flit from him to Lou -- whose jaw dropped in surprise, and we both watched him stomp towards the stairs, his wide cadence keeping him steady, despite the sway.

I wondered if maybe it was less that he was made of music, and more he was drowning in whiskey. I looked to the glass he'd left between our places, and I could swear I saw the trace of his kiss on the glass.

I looked to Lou, and his face was long. He sighed, rubbing it with a hand. "Shit, and I thought maybe we had someone he could play with," he muttered, voice slurring. He closed up the book he'd brought down -- a ledger book, it seemed like -- and made to collect the cards. "I'm sorry, Mr. Momoiro. He... He's not like this all the time," he assured me.

My eyes looked up as a door _slammed_  shut. They narrowed as I chided him silently for being so inconsiderate of the rest of the house mates. "Does he drink often?"

His hands... Hesitated. Big brown eyes looking at me, as if begging me to un-ask the question. He licked his lips as he brought all the glasses together with a tinkling. "I mean... It's hard to say." He looked up too. "I don't see him carry a flask, but I don't exactly watch him at the office to see if he's drinking or not. Lena is real good about keeping him from doing anything crazy, but that doesn't mean he isn't buying his own whiskey." He offered me a sympathetic smile. "I'm not his mother or anything. I can't really answer that question."

My face twisted. It wasn't a direct no... It was a 'probably, but I can't prove it'. Having doctored my own alcoholicism for years, I understood how tricky it could be to pin down. I reached for my whiskey and sighed, tossing it back. It went down smooth, delicious... A sign I was very drunk and couldnt' taste the alcohol anymore. "Well, I appreciate you dealing for us," I told him, quiet. I gave him an apology he wouldn't understand, but he seemed to get the gist of it.

"Ah, don't worry about it," he said, barely a whisper. It had a sad resignment to it.

I helped him clear up, both of careful to take our time with it, drunk as we were. I helped clean the dishes, and he wiped down the table. He offered me the bottle of whiskey and... I reluctantly accepted it. He gave me a wink and then went up the steps, much quieter than McCree had been. I stole a candle from the chandelier before I put it out, and took myself to my room.

...My room. It was a surreal thought. Walls and a cot that, all of a sudden, were mine. It was strange not to hear Usagi, but rather the creak of wood and dust and wind without. I set a small fire in my stove, and set on my kettle again. I was undressed and ready for bed by the time it whistled, and I set a pot to steep.  
Incense, I thought again. Some dragonsblood and jasmine would be nice right now. I picked at the beautiful blanket I had bought today, and pulled it to my nose... The strange smell of spices and coffee and wood from the shop... It was interesting. It would smell like me soon. A bizarre thought.

I was owning things again. Things that might actually outlive their use, rather than being stolen all the time...

I heard a sound. Quiet. At first, I wasn't sure if it was without, but then I heard also, "Ibn?"

I rose, a little too quickly, but I moved to the door and opened it. Worried eyes looked at me above the warm glow of her own candle.

"Ms. Amari," I greeted. "Can I help you?"

She gave me a sad smile. "I was hoping to help you, child. May I speak with you?"

I opened my door, and welcomed her in. "Of course."

It wasn't proper, but at this point, a room was a dining hall was a tent was the wilderness to me. It hardly mattered. She stepped in, and I closed the door. She blew out her candle, the stove still glowing in the corner. "I... See you have met the wolf tonight."

"The wolf?" I asked. _Okami_.

"Yes." Her eyes look in no particular direction. "I'm afraid McCree is... Well, he's not a well man." She looked to me. "He does good by the people, but it's a hard job, and a lonely one at that. He tends to push people away, you see."

As she spoke, I set about making tea, listening. _If I had the time..._  It did not seem a stretch to me for a young man of such earnest and quick devotion to be hurt time and again. It would make sense that people would take advantage and he would grow callouses where the pain hurt the most...

"It's... Not personal, I assure you," she said, her hands reaching to me. "It's not because of you, in particular. Not your name, or your color, or that you're new here... None of that." She shook her head. "He just... He has these dark moods. It's why he keeps at a distance from everyone. Please. Some people have tried to fix him in the past, and it always ends poorly. I don't know what kind of man you are, but I urge you not to take his behavior personally. It's just his way. War changes men. And he did a lot of things he is not proud of and it haunts him."

...He's an ex-Pinkerton. And Confederate, I remembered. And ran with the James-Younger Gang...

"...So he drinks. And sometimes... Sometimes he gets growly and angry, but damn if he is careful not to _hurt_  anyone. Please. Understand."

" _I SAID GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! OR I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL SHOOT YOU._ "

I thought of Chan's panic, and how surprised he was to see his rage. Or the way Lou's jaw dropped when he bid us good night...

I meet her eyes, offering her the cup. "It is not common, is what you mean," I rephrase. I press the cup to her hands.

She looks to it... And up at me. And she has the decency to be embarassed. "Not common at all," she agreed, turning the cup and taking a sip.

"He has not scared me off, if that is your worry," I add. I do my best to sound calming. I have had years of experience lying to people with sweet and very sincere smiles. "I will merely be more careful drinking with him in the future."

She nods. "Yes, exactly right," she says. "Honestly, it's not even the drinking. Most times he drinks, he's a _jolly_  drunk. A happy man. It's... Well, I'm afraid it's the _sober_  man that is so scary. I daresay you gave him a real fright today. Strangers happen now and again, but we don't often have folks claiming to have known him from back when. Child, you must _understand_. He does not have many _good_  old friends. It is not a wise thing to suggest..."

"I understand," I say softly, hands to her arms.

" _Honest, must be an_ old _friend, Jess. Just seein' you seems to put him in a state of shock_."

"I... I did not realize," I said softly. "I did not mean to cause more suspicion."

"I mean... You _have_  to know that I told him your real name. He's the _Sheriff_ , Hanzo."

"I know." I tilted the cup to her, as Han had to me, and she sheepishly sipped again. This time she drank deeply, and I smiled.

It didn't reach my eyes, but I smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAI GUIZE!!! Did you miss me? I'm glad you found your way back here! It's been a ridiculous winter, but I managed to survive the -19 Cleveland freeze for Christmas, so at least there's that. I got a decently-paying, regular hours job for what seems like the first time in my life, and I'm moving again, hopefully for the last time in a while.
> 
> Hopefully. Meanwhile, if you haven't heard about my magazine, Blake's Dungeon Quarterly, you should check it out on your favorite social media @BlakesDungeon, or you can find me @SmutWithPlot on most things, and @LoonyMoonyProductions on Patreon and Facebook. As always, read and review! Waking up to reviews is seriously one of my favorite parts of a morning routine. Don't be shy. Just... You know. Make it a daily thing. Not 8 in a shot. Appreciated.
> 
> *heart hands to he-knows-who-he-is because I love him and I'm glad to see him back in my reviews*
> 
> I'VE MISSED YOU GUYS. You are such a boon to my soul, you have no idea.


	7. Job Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Momoiro ventures through town in search of employment and makes a few dollars at the Point again. A trick he probably can't pull off for too much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY, EVERY PONY!!! I'm still alive, believe it or not. Barely. I had to move (again), but this time I had enough forewarning and assistance to make the leap to Los Angeles! I am sleeping on the floor in someone's hallway in Burbank, but at least I'm here. So that's something. As always, you can find me elsewheres on the intar webs as @SmutWithPlot or through my geeky-as-fuck @BlakesDungeon. I just went to #AnimeExpo this weekend (thus the move) so it is CHOCK FULL of cosplay! Lots of McCree. I have a problem. I'm not sorry. This chapter has been in the works for MONTHS, and I finally wrapped it up today. I hope you enjoy!

If you asked me if I'd slept well, I would probably lie to you. Something about the security and comfort of solid walls, the simple pleasure of a mattress instead of hard packed dirt and dust, being generally clean, certainly well-fed, the pleasure of a cup of tea in the morning and no rattlesnakes in my cot... I had fallen out of the habit of making up lies first thing in the morning. It had been so long since I'd had someone around to ask such prying, impersonal questions that I felt it best that I prepare myself. I wasn't sure if I was hoping that Dr. Ziegler would ask, or Ms. Amari, or even Louis.

Truth be told, I was restless as I always am. Always have been. Even as a youth, rattling around lessons and worries and plans in my head. Combat maneuvers and political ones, alliances and dramatics that consumed my days. Which girls would vie for my attention tomorrow, which ones I should humor, which I should pretend I didn't hear... Listening to the guards do their walks around the compound. I think a large part of my problem is that I was cursed with exceptional hearing, so there's always something waking me up. As I grew older, I kept half an ear cocked for intruders or my brother sneaking home at ungodly hours, living his life to the fullest while I sat and worried and fretted and wasted my nights, then rose with the sun to start the whole mess again. Genji could lay about in bed until lunch with the dazed, contented smile of a cat and god, how I hated him for it.

I will say: as short as his life was, I am quite certain he lived it better than I did. Maybe I didn't think so at the time, but I am sure of it now.

Amari was not kidding -- the Sheriff was indeed a noisy man. Late as we went to bed, he was still up before dawn and I heard his coughing first -- that is an endearing thing about smokers. You never have to worry about where they are. Just listen and they will announce themselves eventually. I heard him rise, the creaking of wood as he moved about upstairs. It was faint; he was on the opposite side of the hall from where I was, but I heard him come down the hallway. It was a swaying, swaggering pace, and... As I listened, I heard the creaking of a door, the joining of the lock into the frame, and I realized he was closing someone else's door.  
Or checking on them. Spying on them? Was he a worrier too?

Then he came to the stairs, thrump, thrump, thrump thrump thrump thrump... It took him a moment to haul all that bulk of his forward, but once he got going, his momentum carried him so that his feet just followed behind. He took four or five steps after he cleared the stairs to slow his momentum, and I listened, entranced, even as my body pretended to be very, very still. He moved to the kitchen, fiddling about with something... The kettle. Sloshing of water. The crack of a match. I debated going out to meet him, but that he was trying (I will admit that, he was trying) to be quiet and not wake anyone. Quiet footsteps again, although I could hear the singing of his spurs as he came down the hall to me. His bootsteps hesitated at my door.

I held my breath, my heart racing, wondering if he was debating waking me for a private talk while no one else was around to spoil it...

And then he moved past. I heard the rattle of chain, the click of a lock, and the swing of a cabinet door -- the guns. The clinking of metal, the rattle and spin of a gun.

I heard the kettle begin to whistle. The wood groaned as he shifted his weight, and then he closed the cabinet, his swagger strangely not as wide or pronounced. I considered it might be the gun. Heavy enough, and he was used to carrying it so much, that when it was off, it ruined his balance. The thought tickled me. He made his way back down the hall, just a touch quieter, but quicker. He took the kettle off the flame, and I listened to him fix up something.

I told myself to just... _Go_. Go say hi. Good morning. _I'm sorry_. Anything. Anything at all.

...But as I had always done when Genji came home in the wee hours of the morning, having his own life to live while I chose to sit and worry mine away, I did nothing but listen.  
He cracked a pair of eggs. Sizzled them up in something. I moved in my bed to lie on my back, eyes looking out at the sky. It was that dark blue that suggested morning would be around in a little bit. If you hadn't started sleeping yet, you were not going to get any rest. I closed my eyes, listening to him move about the kitchen, the subdued clinking of china and silvers as he put away what dishes had been set out to dry the night before. He sipped and ate, alone, the sound of his fork on the plate the only sound for a while, punctuated by a cough. When he was done, he set it in the sink, quiet, and then that lumbering gait came towards me again.

I raised an eyebrow, wondering if he had decided to pester me anyway, not quite opening my eyes, when I heard the rap of knuckles on wood.

Not my door. Hers.

A little louder, and I heard her whine in protest.

A click and whine as he opened her door. "Angie..." he cooed, his voice thick with coffee and honey. I shivered. "Time to get up, honey. I'm about to head off to work."

"I don't want to," I heard her croak. "Go away."

Another whine, perhaps opening it wider. "You said you wanted to teach Mr. Momo how to bake this mornin'. You'll wanna be up early in case he screws it up."

I tried to pretend I hadn't heard the remark. Such a lack of faith.

"Let him screw it up. I don't care..."

"You were very insistent I woke you before I left..." he sing-songed, and I heard his weight shift, leaning into the doorframe. Her growling got louder, and I heard something soft land elsewhere.

"Go away, you brute," she growled, adding some curse in her native tongue at him.

"I made you coffee," he added, chuckling. Oh _god_  did it make me twitch. I had to bite my lip not to make a sound.

"You made _yourself_  coffee," she insisted. But I heard rustling. "God, Jesse, I _hate_ you."

"Yeah, you've said," he replied, evenly. It made my face twist to hear him take it so easily. "Now come on. I'm gonna stand here and keep messin' with ya until yer up. That was the deal."

Another curse in her native tongue, until I heard her feet hit the wood as well. "There! I am _up_. Satisfied?" Her accent made the words a hiss, and I wondered what an angry Dr. Ziegler looked like, as his weight shifted again.

"Hey, you asked for it," he answered, and then his steps moved to the side. "I'm headin' out. He causes any trouble, you let me know."

"Oh, please. I think if we have to put up with you, we can handle _him_. And it's _Momoiro_. Use his proper name."

There was a pause. I could practically _hear_  the glare.

_"'Cept that ain't his proper name," my spectre muttered beside me. I did not look to him._

"And it is _Angela_  or Dr. Ziegler. You do not call me 'Angie' anymore. I thought we had that clear."

I do hear a grunt. "Fine. _Doc_. Have it your way." Stubborn and contrary. I made a note that this was how he fights. He does not take the options provided, but finds a third. He closed the door behind him and moved down the hall, and I heard him mutter. "Maybe I take the coffee with me and you can make yer own..."

And spiteful. I listened to her mutter to herself, and then he was out the front door.

 _You do not call me Angie anymore_. I made a note to avoid the nickname, as if I would have any possible reason to use it.

She is like a dancer, feet soft and light on the wood, and I hear her pop ceramic and splash coffee, and I take her distance to rearrange myself into a position that resembles someone actually enjoying their sleep. She has a whole cup, and then a second before she comes back down the hallway. I listen to her look for clothing, pulling on something presentable (did he stand there and pester her while she was not?) and then she comes quietly to my door, a meek knock of knuckles on the wood.

"Mr. Momoiro?" she calls, loud enough to wake me, hopefully.

I hesitate, using years of experience pretending to be asleep.

"Mr. Momoiro, I hate to wake you, but you wanted to learn how to make the bread. Did you want to help today, or...? I do know you were drinking with the boys last night. If you'd rather sleep, I can let you get back to it."

By this point, the crack of morning was peeking through my window. I rose, my bed creaking, and I called out, "Hai... I can come." I even let out a noisy yawn. "Give me a moment to dress."

"Of course. Do you like coffee? I have some made. Or perhaps tea?"

"A kettle would be nice," I answer. "I prefer tea, I have my own. Do not trouble yourself."

I wonder idly if her tea would be worth having, but decide not to risk it so soon. I hear her excuse herself back to the kitchen, and I pull off my blankets, stripping down to nothing. I debate a sponge bath, or even a proper one, but if she is indeed up so early for my sake, I do not want to make her wait for me. Perhaps later. I pull on trousers, a shirt, a ribbon... I make myself presentable and slip out of the room, wondering how dangerous it would be to walk barefoot around here. I decide to try it anyhow, and my feet are nearly silent on the wood, though perhaps only I can hear it. I offer her a tired smile, and she does the same.

"Ready to bake?" she asks. Her voice is soft, and with the morning sun coming in through the window, she looks like her namesake.

I nod. "Please."

We go through the risen dough. She shows me how to work it, and we make some rather nice loafs. She even makes a few danishes, fancier pastries, with an English brand of custard that she insists is Lena's favorite. A blackberry compote from the icebox, and we nibble on leftover bread from yesterday with the jams and cheese, and tea. It is a lazy endeavor, and it is a new skill, but my hands are strong and nimble, and I watch her to learn the proper technique. She walks me through the baking as well, and by the time the first batch is coming out, golden-brown, Amari the elder has shuffled down the stairs.

I marvel at how quiet she was -- I did not hear her rise. My delight shows in my smile. "Good morning, Ms. Amari."

"Good morning, Mr. Momoiro. Angela." She sits at the table. "What are you two doing up so early?"

"Baking," Angela answered. "McCree woke me before he went in to work so we could get a head start, take our time with it." I note that while my coyote is spiteful, Angela is kind and generous. I don't miss the twist to Ana's eyes and the cock to her head, though. "I asked him to."

"Oh." That seems to make a difference. "Well, that was good of him." Her eyes look to me. " _Ibn_. Could an old woman trouble you for a spot of tea? I think there is some jasmine in the cupboard there."

"Of course," I answer, bobbing my head in respect to my elder. I abandon my own breakfast to refill the kettle, and the Doctor offers her breakfast. By the time it's cooked, we are both sipping jasmine tea, and even Dr. Ziegler is giving it a try. She needed a touch of honey to make it how she liked, but she is outspoken with her praise. She shoos me out of the kitchen to finish the baking, and I am left talking to Ms. Amari, nibbling on an apple fritter. I make a note to watch my sweets intake, because Dr. Ziegler's baked goods were going to ruin me.

"How did you sleep last night, Mr. Momoiro?" she asks.

"Quite well," I answer easily. "It's nice not being out in the wilderness so much. I'm actually clean and have food," I add, my eyes sparkling with delight as I gesture to the plate before me. Her smile brightens, and I look to the kitchen to watch Dr. Ziegler. "It is nice to not be on my own anymore."

"I am glad you feel that way, Hanzo," she said, very softly, presumably to keep the Doctor from hearing her. "Do you mind if I call you Hanzo? Or do you prefer Momoiro?"

...My smile did not dim. It was too well trained. "Momoiro, please. For discretion. I understand the Sheriff, but... Well. I am not sure someone isn't out there looking for me."

Her smile stayed where it was, but her eyes didn't sparkle so much. "Of course, Mr. Momoiro," she answered. She sipped her tea. "We also need to discuss getting you a job. What kinds of things can you do?"

That conversation took quite a while. I started off with simple things -- reading, writing, calligraphy. Accounting and the like. I watched Dr. Ziegler retire to her room (presumably to get more sleep, since she did not come back out) and moved to less domestic things. Yes, I could fire a rifle but it was not my favorite. I favored hand-to-hand combat, should we need security when the Sheriff was not home. Could even do some bodyguard work and some heavy-lifting, though I was hesitant to get into the mining. By the end of it, she had a list of places I could investigate -- the general store with Winston of course, but also the Madame's (who she said was very in need of a good accountant) and the Sheriff himself, should I wish to get into any bounty hunting or body guarding. Both of our smiles seemed a bit thin at that part, but the words we exchanged were quite optimistic about it. She also advised me to go talk to the priest at the church and Lena about piano-playing (though I admitted I was very rusty) to see what they could afford for my skill. I was quite confident they would not be able to afford what I was really worth, but even a little coin for something that I found a joy and a pleasure would be rewarding in its own way. She offered to pack me a lunch, and made up something as a surprise for me while I dressed.

"Just this once," she teased. "Next time you feed _me_ , ibn. That is part of the deal."

I decided to head for the church first. It was not too far away, just on the other side of the Main St., a touch further South. The white steeple was easy to follow, a beacon above the rooftops, and she chimed the hour as I came, welcoming me. Beckoning.

It was nice to have a church that was only on the other side of the street. I did not miss the trial of climbing to temple. My sensei had insisted the pain of the journey was as much a part of the worship as the praying and incense, but I had about had my fill of painful journeys for a lifetime. It was still morning, and a number of the stores were already busy with business. The church was no different. As I opened the heavy doors into the sanctuary, the creaking of old wood echoed in the cavernous space and announced my presence to a frocked young man sweeping between the pews.

He gave me a kind smile, halting his work as I closed the door behind me to keep the cooler air trapped inside. "Good morning! Welcome. I'm afraid you missed morning mass, but we've another at 11, if you like."

He was lean of frame with a big, smiling face and hair the red-brown of the desert mountains. Brown eyes were watching, but too kind to appraise. And yet his frock did not have the white collar of a priest.

"Ah, sorry. Actually, I'm not here for Mass. Is Father Reyes about?"

"Oh, of course! He was just--"

And as if on cue, the door at the back of the sanctuary creaked open, and in stepped a man of dark complexion, the white collar of his station, and a rosary with a gold cross I could see from here. He had in his hands the ceremonial dish and chalice of communion, and he glanced at us as he headed to the altar to deposit them back where they belonged.

" _Buenos dias_ ," he called, a deep, rumbling timbre that echoed nicely in the empty sanctuary. " _Un momento, por favor_."

I looked back to the younger gentleman who gave me that kind smile again. "He'll be right with you." He returned to his sweeping and I moved toward the front of the sanctuary, eyes sweeping around the place -- although the walls were simple terra cotta, wide panel fans sweeping up the heat overhead, there was a beautiful stained glass window behind the altar with a depiction of Christ carrying the Cross. I watched the priest mutter a prayer over the altar, hand making the cross over it, and I kept my hands clasped respectfully behind me.

When Reyes turned to me, I realized he was dark enough to be part... I caught myself. It would be a bit tricky to not think of them like that in this town. His skin had an edge of red to it, like the chili hot chocolate favored by Mexicans, short cut curly black hair for his African heritage. Hazel eyes something between cafe con leche and avocado sparkled at me, an ugly gray scar coming down past his left eye. He had a neatly trimmed goatee around a warm smile, but there was something of the devil in him, a clever mischief to his eyes.

"I am sorry!" he said, arms spread wide. "From afar you looked Mexican. My apologies." He held out a large hand, calloused from hard work. "I am Father Reyes. You must be... Momoiro, yes?"

I took the hand, shaking it. He had a strong grip, the kind that advised you not to play those kinds of games with him. "Hai. It is no problem, I am Momoiro, yes. I am staying at Ms. Amari's home."

He clapped the other hand around mine. "Ah, yes! Welcome welcome! How are you liking our little town?"

 _Little town_. "It is... Interesting," I admitted. I was no Christian, but I knew that the sanctity of a sanctuary warranted honesty and respect. "It is certainly a more... Colorful company than I am generally used to. That will take adjustment."

His smile was almost predatory. "A fine way to phrase it. Keep that spirit and I'm sure you will adjust just fine." He released my hand and I returned it behind me. "So, Mr. Momoiro. How can I be of service to you today?"

"Actually, if it may please you, I would wish to be in service to _you_. I am new in town, and in need of employment," I said simply. "Among other things, I am a gifted pianist, and Ms. Amari suggested offering my services to the church. Perhaps I can add some music to the services. Maybe even give lessons to parishioners."

He stroked his chin, petting the beard that had streaks of gray belying his age, though his body insisted he wasn't much older than me. His eyes tracked to the organ to one side of the stage. As he turned, I saw the blood red beads of his rosary rattle under his robes -- not unlike the wooden beads of the Buddhist monks back home. "You can read music if given to you?"

I nodded. "I'm quite good at sight reading. And it would take little time to master any regular pieces. I can't imagine they would be too terribly difficult to start, as most hymns are simple for the sake of the..." Audience? Not the choir. I frowned, trying to think of the word.

"...Flock?" he suggested.

"Yes," I agreed, nodding. "Sorry, thank you. For the flock. Perhaps in time I could get more complicated, add flourishes, but I am confident I could have a workable performance almost immediately."

It was bold, but I was confident. I had done Chopin and Liszt and Beethoven as well as composers from Japan I'm sure these people had never heard of. Simple people in a tiny church in the middle of the desert would likely not have a high bar, and I had been practised at leaping over bars that most professionals had difficulty achieving. I might be rusty, but I knew I was damn well competent enough for something like this.

The priest regarded me. I watched his eyes sweep over me with the discernment that made me think more of my fighting instructors than any of the priests I had known back home. "Mmm." It didn't seem like a response more than a mere sound of contemplation. "I will speak with my brothers and get back to you. Or perhaps through Amari or McCree. He comes by here often enough."

  
...I found that interesting. McCree didn't strike me as a terribly religious man, but I suppose I could be mistaken. "As you wish." I bowed low in respect, and smiled as he bowed as well, although not quite as low.

"Until then. May the Lord be with you."

...I felt suspiciously like there was an answer he expected after that, but being as I'm not a Christian, I couldn't for the life of me imagine what it was. "Thank you, sir."

And as I turned to go, my eyes swept the sanctuary, counting the pews. There were only thirteen.

xxx

I went to the General Store next and went over the bulletin board with Winston. Lena had an ad for entertainment at the Watchpoint, Madame Lacroix had need for someone for her books (both of which Amari had already mentioned to me), but there was also need for someone to take dictation for letters. A lot of them were in English, but I put up a note myself that I could help with this in Korean, Cantonese, Mandarin and a few other languages as well. I watched the shopkeeper's eyes widen at the list, but I pretended not to notice. At the Point, Lena greeted me with a thin smile, but Lucio's was warmer, and a touch sympathetic. I offered my services as a piano man, and she let me work for a few hours to test it out. I went home several dollars richer, a couple of which were provided by Lena, and then multiplied while playing with Lucio. He warned me that I would lose this privelege if I kept it up, but they didn't stop me. I headed to Winston's again to get that saddle for Usagi, a bottle of whiskey to replace the one McCree and Lucio had donated to our game, and also offered to carry home some flour that Dr. Ziegler had waiting for delivery.

Behind me, the bell rang, and I looked over my shoulder absently, and stopped.

It was the Sheriff.

"Ah, Sheriff," Winston greeted with a grin. "I'm afraid your neighbor beat you to it." He winked. "If you boys are going to fight for the good Doctor's favor, it appears you have some stiff competition."

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was hard to speak when that man was in my presence. His boots and spurs were heavy on the hardwood, his eyes narrowed and shrewd under tanned leather. He had a tightly rolled cigarello in his lips, and as his jaw worked, it moved to the far side of his mouth. Red-brown hands, broad and hairy, rested on either hip as he looked me up and down, the bottle wrapped in brown paper in my new saddle, tucked under an arm, the flour on my shoulder. I was fairly certain there was snow on my shirt, and I felt a fool.

Why did he have to come in when I looked a mess like this?

There was a gentle click to his mouth. "You sharkin' Lucio at the Point again?" he asked, his voice a warm drawl.

My eyes widened in a picture of innocence. "I do not know what you mean."

His head tilted, eyes looking up at me in a chiding manner. "Like hell you don't. Don't be robbin' my town, now, Shimada. I know your kind."

I knew he meant it only as the Clan, and yet hearing my name made me shiver. He couldn't confirm that I was who I was, but being so close was more than enough to make me nervous.

"Now, Sheriff. Man is keeping the money in town, so I don't see how it's really a problem," Winston said gently. "Way I hear it, he worked a legitimate day's labor. He's just lucky enough to make it multiply."

I offered the Sheriff my best attempt at a charming smile. I know the effect was ruined by my arms being full of purchases like a beast of burden and the queasy stomach from his suspicions. "Precisely."

"Uh _huh_." He didn't seem entirely convinced. He took the cigarello from his lips, looking to Winston. "That Angie's flour?"

"Indeed it is, Sheriff." He seemed to realize there was more going on between us than just friendly neighbor banter, and that he really didn't want to get in between this. "I knew you'd be by to get it at some point. Mr. Momoiro was just offering to help."

"I'm sure he was," he answered. It sounded like an accusation. I watched him, knowing I shouldn't be surprised by this, and yet it still hurt. "Seems like you got your hands full there, partner. Let me at least get that for you."

I bit my tongue and lowered my eyes, offering the sack of flour. He took it with a soft grunt, and I had the impression he did this all the time. He tilted his hat to Winston. "Doc."

"Sheriff," he answered, nodding back. I felt his eyes on me, but I just followed the Sheriff, a hand brushing the flour off my shirt. I followed him, boots crunching and spurs singing over the hard packed earth of the road. With his long legs and swinging gait, I didn't have to work too hard to keep up with him, but I took the opportunity to appreciate him a little bit.

He had a broad back, the kind that you wanted to wrap your arms around and grab, handfuls of meat and man, and I felt my fingers itching to do just that. Caramel chocolate locks curled in wet sweat at the back of his neck, and I wanted to sweep it away, to taste him. To curl my fingers into the leather he wore, hear that voice say _sweet_  things to me for once--

He peeked his head over his shoulder at me, and my eyes darted up at them, my innocent act more convincing this time, and I think he had a cocked brow at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.

_What the hell you think yer doin'?_

_"He's starin' at your ass," my spectre said with a smirk, giving me away. I could feel him swaggering beside me, thumbs in his belt loops, smug as a cat with cream. "Don't it m_ _ake you all warm and fuzzy and objectified?"_

My lips twitched into a smirk as well, and McCree's eyes narrowed again, a grunt of some kind coming from him, or a wordless protest. His head swiveled back, and I bit my lip, eyes sparkling with amusement. Sheriff McCree didn't know what to do with me. I wondered if perhaps I had taken too much whiskey while at the point and the heat was making me mischeivous, but I shouldn't press my luck. We made our way to the house in silence, McCree opening the door and holding it for me as I followed behind. Amari the younger was at the table, fanning herself with a lace and wood fan that I noted was rather pretty, her hair still down, a thin lace shift keeping her decent. Her strokes paused when she saw us come in, and she tilted her head to one side.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, crossing her legs in a more lady-like fashion.

"Afternoon," McCree answered, and I saw a smirk on his face as he bent down to press a kiss to her forehead as he passed. "It's goin' on 4:00 now." His voice trailed after him as he went to the kitchen, knowing where the flour went. "You been sleepin' all day?"

"I had a siesta," she answered, smiling. Her head tilted back to watch him upside down. "Any rapscallions and ne'er do wells today, Sheriff?"

"Just your new buddy, sharkin' Lucio for coin," he answered, closing a cupboard. His eyes looked to me. "But he insists he ain't done nothin' wrong."

"I _did_ nothing wrong. In fact, I am very good," I said, setting down my saddle in a chair. "Sheriff, I brought a gift. To make up for last night."

His steps hesitated. But he came towards me. I watched Fareeha's eyebrow rise, watching us, her fan going again. I offered it to him, and he pulled the bottle out of the bag. His eyes narrowed, looking up at me, waiting for the trick. Or for the scorpion to strike. But he regards for the bottle, turning it about. "...Thank you," he said finally. He sounded a touch confused.

"You are very welcome," I answered softly. This was going to take work. It was breaking me, this... Back and forth. It was hurting me. I took up my saddle. "Now, if you will excuse me. I should put this away. And clean up after the day's adventures." Neither of them said anything as I went, though I knew she was watching me. Usagi seemed disinterested by the saddle, but was begrudgingly grateful for the seed. I said hello to all of them, Angel nudging me with a warm chuff, the frog braying in mirth, the painteds quiet and content to but noses with each other.

The Shadow regarded me much like his Master. A shrewd suspicion in his brown eyes. I offered him a salt lick, and his nose snuffled at it before he took the offering. I pet his muzzle, a soft, relieved sigh as I stroked him. I pressed a kiss to his coat.

[If only your master was so easy to appease], I murmured to him in my native tongue. He nudged me in a way I hoped was encouraging, and I smiled, scratching his ears. When I came back inside, both McCree and the younger Amari were gone, and I set about giving myself a bath. I made a note to get myself some oils so that I could do it properly, but given the dust in this place, it might be a long time before that was a possibility. I wondered if the geisha house would do a proper bath house as I scrubbed, sluicing off the weeks on the road and the day's adventures. I wondered about the Madame in need of an accountant, and how many letters to home, how many stories I would be dictating in the future. I wondered about the Priest who seemed like everything but a priest, and the Sheriff who was as shrewd as a coyote, big as a mountain, warm and tempting as whiskey...

This would take time. And I am sad to say, but I have never been a particularly patient man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // So... I've realized something odd about myself. My Hanzo is sitting there talking to Ana, and I realize who he's channeling. It's Taliesin Jaffe. I've been binge-watching Talks Machina, I brought this on myself. But I went back even to "Strange Town" and... Yeah. Swapping out McCree for Mercer is harder, but boy golly, I can just put Taliesin's Percival in that jail cell for Hanzo, and it feels exactly the same. All the way through the scene with Winston, too -- Percival de Rolo. He even ends it with a variant on 'that'll do'. I hadn't even thought of it that way, but it just FITS. They're practically the same character. Good luck getting that OUT of my head now... Hoi. Cannot be unseen! "She's a bit... *tilt* Spirited." Does that make Ziegler Marisha? A very Molly v. Beau, Marisha? I love this ridiculous theory.
> 
> #Critter

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm not crying, you're crying. If I don't get fanart of that last kiss, blades and panic, I am disowning all of you.


End file.
